Lit      ML      if  Li  Mm 


DNAH  AIKEN 


THE   RIVER 


Vv 


THE  RIVER 


By 

EDNAH   AIKEN 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

SIDNEY   H.    RIESENBERG 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1914 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS     OF 

BHAUNWOHTH    It    CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    POINTERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.    Y. 


riv 


TO 
CHARLES  SEDGWICK  AIKEN 


M637871 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I   MARSHALL  SENDS  FOR  RICKARD           ,        .        .        .  1 

II   A  BIT  OF  ORATORY 9 

III  THE  BLESSING  OF  ARIDITY 20 

IV  THE  DESERT  HOTEL 38 

V  A  GAME  OF  CHECKERS ,  50 

VI  RED  TAPE 67 

VII  A  GARDEN  IN  A  DESERT 80 

VIII  UNDER  THE  VENEER 87 

IX  ON  THE  WISTARIA 95 

X  FEAR 103 

XI  THE  RIVALS Ill 

XII  A  DESERT  DINNER 117 

XIII  THE  FIGHTING  CHANCE 127 

XIV  HARDIN'SLUCK 137 

XV  THE  WRONG  MAN 141 

XVI  THE  BEST  LAID  SCHEMES    ......  150 

XVII  THE  DRAGON  TAKES  A  HAND 159 

XVIII   ON  THE  LEVEE 169 

XIX  THE  WHITE  REFUGE 178 

XX  OPPOSITION 189 

XXI  A  MORNING  RIDE 199 

XXII  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WATERS    .        .        .        .        .204 

XXIII  MORE  ORATORY .  214 

XXIV  A  SOFT  NOOK 234 

XXV  THE  STOKERS 247 

XXVI  THE  WHITE  OLEANDER 256 

XXVII  A  WHITE  WOMAN  AND  A  BROWN       .        ,        .        .264 

XXVIII  BETRAYAL 271 

XXIX  RICKARD  MAKES  A  NEW  ENEMY  AND  A  NEW  FRIEND      .  278 

XXX  SMUDGE 290 

XXXI  TIME  THE  UMPIRE 297" 


CONTENTS— Continued 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


XXXII   THE  WALK  HOME 307 

XXXIII  A  DISCOVERY 319 

XXXIV  THE  FACE  IN  THE  WILLOWS 329 

XXXV  A  GLIMPSE  OF  FREEDOM 337 

XXXVI  THE  DRAGON  SCORES 346 

XXXVII   A  SUNDAY  SPECTACLE 355 

XXXVIII  THE  WHITE  NIGHT  . 367 

XXXIX  THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  NIGHT 378 

XL  A  DESERTION 396 

XLI   INCOMPLETENESS 405 

XLII  A  CORNER  OF  His  HEART 417 


THE  RIVER 


THE  RIVER 

CHAPTER  I 

MARSHALL  SENDS  FOR  RICKARD 

THE  large  round  clock  was  striking  nine  as  "Casey" 
Rickard's  dancing  step  carried  him  into  the  outer 
office  of  Tod  Marshall.  The  ushering  clerk,  coatless  and 
vestless  in  expectation  of  the  third,  hot  spring  day,  made 
a  critical  appraisement  of  the  engineer's  get-up  before  he 
spoke.  Then  he  stated  that  Mr.  Marshall  had  not  yet 
come. 

For  a  London  tie  and  a  white  silk  shirt  belted  into 
white  serge  trousers  were  smart  for  Tucson.  The  clerks 
in  the  employ  of  the  Overland  Pacific  and  of  the  Sonora 
and  Yaqui  Railroads  had  stared  at  Rickard  as  he  en 
tered  ;  they  followed  his  progress  through  the  room.  He 
was  a  newcomer  in  Tucson.  He  had  not  yet  acquired 
the  apathetic  habits  of  its  citizens.  He  wore  belts,  in 
stead  of  suspenders.  His  white  trousers,  duck  or  serge, 
carried  a  newly  pressed  crease  each  morning. 

The  office  had  not  reached  a  verdict  on  the  subject  of 
K.  C.  Rickard.  The  shirt-sleeved,  collarless  clerks  would 
have  been  quick  to  dub  him  a  dandy  were  it  not  for  a. 
page  of  his  history  that  was  puzzling  them.  He  had 
held  a  chair  of  engineering  in  some  eastern  city.  He 


2  THE   RIVER 

had  resigned,  the  wind-tossed  page  said,  to  go  on  the 
road  as  a  fireman.  His  rapid  promotion  had  been  spec 
tacular;  the  last  move,  a  few  weeks  ago,  to  fill  an  office 
position  in  Tucson.  The  summons  had  found  him  on 
the  west  coast  of  Mexico,  where  the  Overland  Pacific 
was  pushing  its  tracks. 

"You  can  wait  here,"  suggested  the  clerk,  looking 
covertly  at  the  shoes  of  the  man  who  a  few  years  before 
had  been  shoveling  coal  on  a  Wyoming  engine.  "Mr. 
Marshall  said  to  wait." 

"Ribbons,  instead  of  shoe-laces!"  carped  the  human 
machine  that  must  ever  write  letters  which  other  men 
sign.  "And  a  blue  pin  to  match  his  tie !  I  call  that  go 
ing  some!" 

It  would  never  have  occurred  to  Rickard,  had  he 
thought  about  it  at  all  that  morning  as  he  knotted  his 
tie  of  dark,  brilliant  blue  silk,  that  the  selection  of  his 
lapis  pin  was  a  choice ;  it  was  an  inevitable  result,  an 
instinctive  discretion  of  his  fingers.  It  warped,  how- 
ever,  the  suspended  judgment  of  Marshall's  men  who 
had  never  seen  him  shoveling  coal,  disfigured  by  a  denim 
jumper.  They  did  not  know  that  they  themselves  were 
slovens ;  ruined  by  the  climate  that  dulls  vanity  and  wilts 
collars. 

"Give  him  a  year  to  change  some  of  his  fine  habits !" 
wagered  Smythe,  the  stoop-shouldered  clerk,  as  the  door 
of  the  inner  office  closed. 

"To  change  his  habits  less!"  amended  the  office  wit. 
And  then  they  fell  to  speculating  what  Marshall  was 
going  to  do  with  him.  What  pawn  was  he  in  the  game 
that  every  one  in  Tucson  followed  with  eager  self-inter 
ested  concern?  Marshall's  was  the  controlling  hand  in 
Arizona  politics;  the  maker  of  governors,  the  arbiter 


MARSHALL    SENDS   FOR   RICKARD         3 

of  big  corporations;  president  of  a  half-dozen  railroads. 
Not  a  move  of  his  on  the  board  that  escaped  notice. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  door,  Rickard  was  echoing 
the  office  question.  This  play  job,  where  did  it  lead  to? 
He  had  liked  his  work,  under  Stratton.  There  had 
been  some  pretty  problems  to  meet — what  did  Marshall 
mean  to  do  with  him? 

The  note  had  set  the  appointment  for  nine.  Rickard 
glanced  at  his  watch,  and  took  out  his  Engineering  Re 
view.  It  would  be  ten  before  that  door  opened  on  Tod 
Marshall ! 

He  knew  that,  on  the  road,  Marshall's  work  began 
at  dawn.  "A  man  won't  break  from  overwork,  or  rust 
from  underwork,  if  he  follows  the  example  of  the  sun," 
Rickard  had  often  heard  him  expound  his  favorite 
theory.  "It  is  only  the  players,  the  sybarites,  who  can 
afford  to  pervert  the  arrangement  nature  intended  for 
us."  But  in  Tucson,  controlled  by  the  wifely  solicitude 
of  his  Claudia,  he  was  coerced  into  a  regular  perversion. 
His  office  never  saw  him  until  the  morning  was  half 
gone. 

A  half-hour  later,  Rickard  finished  reading  a  report 
on  the  diversion  of  a  great  western  river.  The  name  of 
Thomas  Hardin  had  sent  him  off  on  a  tangent  of  mem 
ory.  The  Thomas  Hardin  whose  efforts  to  bring  water 
to  the  desert  of  the  Colorado  had  been  so  spectacularly 
unsuccessful  was  the  Tom  Hardin  he  had  known !  The 
sister  had  told  him  so,  the  girl  with  the  odd  bronze  eyes ; 
opal  matrix  they  were,  with  glints  of  gold,  or  was  it 
green?  She  herself  was  as  unlike  the  raw  boor  of  his 
memory  as  a  mountain  lily  is  like  the  coarse  rock  of  its 
background.  Even  a  half-sister  to  Hardin,  as  Marshall, 
their  host  at  dinner  the  week  before,  had  explained  it, — 
4 


4  THE   RIVER 

no,  even  that  did  not  explain  it.  That  any  of  the  Hardin 
blood  should  be  shared  by  the  veins  of  that  girl,  why  it 
was  incredible!  The  name  "Hardin"  suggested  crudity, 
loud-mouthed  bragging;  conceit.  He  could  understand 
the  failure  of  the  river  project  since  the  sister  had  as 
sured  him  that  it  was  the  same  Tom  Hardin  who  had 
gone  to  college  at  Lawrence ;  had  married  Gerty  Holmes. 
Queer  business,  life,  that  he  should  cross,  even  so  re 
motely,  their  orbits  again.  That  was  a  chapter  he  liked 
to  skip. 

He  walked  over  to  the  windows,  shielded  by  bright 
awnings,  and  looked  down  on  the  city  where  the  next 
few  years  of  his  life  might  be  caught.  Comforting  to 
reflect  that  an  engineer  is  like  a  soldier,  never  can  be 
certain  about  to-morrow.  Time  enough  to  know  that 
to-morrow  meant  Tucson!  What  was  that  threadbare 
proverb  in  the  Overland  Pacific  that  Tod  Marshall  al 
ways  keeps  his  men  until  they  lose  their  teeth  ?  That  de 
fined  the  men  who  made  themselves  necessary! 

His  eyes  were  resting  on  the  banalities  of  the  modern 
city  that  had  robbed  "old  town"  of  its  flavor.  Were 
it  not  for  the  beauty  of  the  distant  hills,  the  jar  and 
rumble  of  the  trains  whose  roar  called  to  near-by  pleasure 
cities,  twinkling  lights  and  crowded  theaters,  stretches  of 
parks  and  recreation  grounds,  he,  who  loved  the  thrill  and 
confinement  of  an  engine,  who  had  found  enticement  in 
a  desert,  a  chapter  of  adventure  in  the  barrancas  of  Mex 
ico,  would  stifle  in  Tucson!  American  progress  was  as 
yet  too  thin  a  veneer  on  Mexican  indifference  to  make 
the  place  endurable ;  as  a  city.  Were  it  a  village  of  ten 
thousand  people,  then  he'd  not  be  scolding  at  his  hotel, 
The  Rosales.  He  could  find  the  limitations  picturesque, 


MARSHALL    SENDS    FOR   RICKARD          5 

even.  The  census  it  was  that  accused  those  dusty  un- 
swept  floors,  the  stained  cuspidors,  the  careless  linen,  and 
The  Rosales  the  best  place  in  town!  One  has  a  right 
to  expect  comforts  in  a  city. 

"I'm  good  for  a  lifetime  here,  if  I  want  it,"  his  thoughts 
would  work  back  to  the  starting  place.  "If  I  knuckle 
down  to  it,  let  him  grow  to  depend  on  me,  it's  as  good 
as  settled  that  I  am  buried  in  Tucson !"  Hadn't  he  heard 
Marshall  himself  say  that  he  "didn't  keep  a  kindergarten 
— that  his  office  wasn't  a  training-school  for  men!"  He 
wanted  his  men  to  stay !  That,  one  of  the  reasons  of  the 
great  man's  power ;  detail  rested  on  the  shoulders  of  his 
employees.  It  kept  his  own  brain  clear,  receptive  to  big 
achievements. 

"Perhaps  as  the  work  unrolls,  as  I  see  more  of  what  he 
wants  of  me,  why  he  wants  me,  I  may  like  it,  I  may  get 
to  shout  for  Tucson !"  It  was  improbable  enough  to  smile 
over !  Child's  work,  compared  to  Mexico.  He  was  never 
tired — that  was  his  grievance;  he  had  it,  now;  he  was 
never  tired. 

The  distinction  of  serving  Marshall  well  certainly  had 
its  drawbacks.  He  wanted  to  sweep  on.  Whether  he  had 
a  definite  terminal,  a  concrete  goal,  had  he  ever  stopped 
to  think  ?  Specialization  had  always  a  fascination  for  him. 
It  was  that  which  had  thrown  him  out  of  his  instructor- 
ship  into  the  fire-box  of  a  western  engine.  It  had  gov 
erned  his  course  at  college — to  know  one  thing  well,  and 
then  to  prove  that  he  knew  it  well!  Contented  in  the 
Mexican  barrancas,  here  he  was  chafing,  restive,  after  a 
few  weeks  of  Tucson.  For  what  was  he  getting  here? 
Adding  what  scrap  of  experience  to  the  rounding  of  his 
profession? 

Retrospectively,  engineering  could  hardly  be  said  to  be 


6  THE   RIVER 

the  work  of  his  choice.  Rather  had  it  appeared  to  choose 
him.  From  boyhood  engineers  had  always  been,  to  him, 
the  soldiers  of  modern  civilization.  To  conquer  and 
subdue  mountains,  to  shackle  wild  rivers,  to  suspend  tres 
tles  over  dizzy  heights,  to  throw  the  tracks  of  an  advanc 
ing  civilization  along  a  newly  blazed  trail,  there  would 
always  be  a  thrill  in  it  for  him.  It  had  changed  the  best 
quarter-back  of  his  high  school  into  the  primmest  of  stu 
dents  at  college.  Only  for  a  short  time  had  he  let  his 
vanity  side-track  him,  when  the  honor  of  teaching  what 
he  had  learned  stopped  his  own  progress.  A  rut — !  He 
remembered  the  day  when  it  had  burst  on  him,  the  reali 
zation  of  the  rut  he  was  in.  He  could  see  his  Lawrence 
schoolroom,  could  see  yet  the  face  under  the  red-haired 
mop  belonging  to  Jerry  Matson — queer  he  remembered 
the  name  after  all  those  years !  He  could  picture  the  look 
of  consternation  when  he  threw  down  his  book,  and  an 
nounced  his  desertion. 

"Casey  was  off  his  feed,"  he  had  heard  one  of  the  stu 
dents  say  as  he  passed  a  buzzing  group  in  the  hall.  "He 
looks  peaked." 

He  had  handed  in  his  resignation  the  next  day.  A 
month  later,  and  he  was  shoveling  coal  on  the  steep 
grades  of  Wyoming. 

"Marshall  keeps  his  men  with  him!"  The  engineer's 
glance  traveled  around  the  fleckless  office.  A  stranger  to 
Marshall  would  get  a  wrong  idea  of  the  man  who  worked 
in  it !  Those  precise  files,  the  desk,  orderly  and  polished, 
the  gleaming  linoleum — and  then  the  man  who  made  the 
negro  janitor's  life  a  proud  burden!  His  clothes  always 
crumpled — spots,  too,  unless  his  Claudia  had  had  a  chance 
at  them !  Black  string  tie  askew,  all  the  outward  visible 
signs  of  the  southern  gentleman  of  assured  ancestry. 


MARSHALL    SENDS    FOR   R1CKARD         7 

Not  even  a  valet  would  ever  keep  Tod  Marshall  up  to  the 
standard  of  that  office.  What  did  he  have  servants  for, 
he  had  demanded  of  Rickard,  if  it  were  not  to  jump  after 
him,  picking  up  the  loose  ends  he  dropped  ? 

Curious  thing,  magnetism.  That  man's  step  on  the 
stair,  and  every  man- jack  of  them  would  jump  to  atten 
tion,  from  Ben,  the  colored  janitor,  who  would  not  swap 
his  post  for  a  sinecure  so  long  as  Tod  Marshall's  one  lung 
kept  him  in  Arizona,  to  Smythe,  the  stoop-shouldered 
clerk,  who  had  followed  Marshall's  cough  from  San  Fran 
cisco.  Poor  Smythe!  as  inextricably  entangled  in  the 
meshes  of  red  tape  as  was  the  hapless  Lady  of  Shalott  in 
the  web  of  her  own  snarled  loom.  It  was  said  in  Arizona 
— he  himself  had  met  the  statement  in  Tucson — that  any 
man  who  had  ever  worked  for  Tod  Marshall  would  rather 
be  warmed  by  the  reflection  of  his  greatness  than  be  given 
posts  of  personal  distinction. 

Rickard  found  his  office  the  only  attractive  place  in  the 
desert  city.  Shining  and  airy,  even  in  the  hottest  days, 
its  gaily  screened  windows  were  far  enough  above  the 
street  to  give  a  charitable  perspective.  Restive  as  he  was 
under  the  inaction  of  the  last  few  weeks,  he  could  ac 
knowledge  a  quaintness  of  foreign  suggestion  in  the  mix 
ture  of  Indian  and  Mexican  influence,  hampered,  rather 
than  helped,  by  American  aggressiveness.  Over  the  heads 
of  a  group  of  low  buildings  he  could  see  the  roof  of  the 
old  mission  church,  now  the  lounging  place  for  roisterers 
and  sponges.  There,  the  fiery  mescal,  the  terrible  tequila, 
were  sending  many  a  white  lad  to  destruction. 

Those  office  buildings  across  the  street,  gay  with  can 
vas,  suggested  American  enterprise.  In  the  distance  were 
the  substantial  structures  of  the  lusty  western  university. 
Down  by  the  track  the  new  home  of  the  Overland  Pa- 


8  THE   RIVER 

cific  was  nearing  completion.  In  the  street  below,  young 
girls  with  their  crisp  duck  skirts  and  colored  waists  gave 
the  touch  of  blossoming.  Mexican  women  wrapped  in 
the  inevitable  black  shawl  were  jostling  one  another's 
baskets.  The  scene  was  full  of  color  and  charm,  but  to 
the  watcher  who  was  eager  to  be  on  and  doing,  it  cried 
teasingly  of  inertia. 

Was  it  office  routine  Marshall  intended  him  for?  He 
admired  without  stint  Tod  Marshall,  but  he  preferred  to 
work  by  the  side  of  the  other  kind,  the  strong  men,  with 
out  physical  handicap,  the  men  who  take  risks,  the  men 
who  live  the  life  of  soldiers.  That  was  the  life  he 
wanted.  He  would  wait  long  enough  to  get  Marshall's 
intention,  and  then,  if  it  meant — this!  he  would  break 
loose.  He  would  go  back  to  the  front  where  he  be 
longed  ;  back  to  the  firing-line. 

As  the  hands  of  the  round  clock  in  the  outer  office 
were  pointing  to  ten,  the  door  opened  and  Marshall  en 
tered.  His  clothes,  of  indefinite  blackish  hue,  would  have 
disgraced  an  eastern  man.  His  string  tie  had  a  star 
board  list,  and  his  hat  was  ready  for  a  rummage  sale. 
But  few  would  have  looked  at  his  clothes.  The  latent 
energy  of  the  dynamic  spirit  that  would  frequently  turn 
that  quiet  office  into  a  maelstrom  gleamed  in  those  In 
dian-black  eyes.  Beneath  the  shabby  cloth,  one  suspected 
the  daily  polished  skin;  under  the  old  slouch  hat  was 
the  mouth  of  purpose,  the  lips  that  no  woman,  even  his 
Claudia,  had  kissed  without  the  thrill  of  fear. 

Marshall  glanced  back  at  the  clock,  and  then  toward 
his  visitor. 

"On  time !"  he  observed. 

Rickard,  smiling,  put  his  book  in  his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  BIT  OF  ORATORY 

MARSHALL  threw  his  hat  on  a  chair,  the  morning 
paper  on  his  desk.  He  aimed  his  burned-out  cigar 
at  the  nearest  cuspidor,  but  it  fell  foul,  the  ashes  scatter 
ing  over  Sam's  lately  scoured  linoleum.  Instantly  there 
was  appearance  of  settled  disorder.  Marshall  emptied 
his  pockets  of  loose  papers,  spreading  them  out  on  his 
flat-top  desk. 

"Sit  down!" 

Rickard  took  the  chair  at  the  other  side  of  the  desk. 

Marshall  rang  a  bell.  Instantly  the  shirt-sleeved  clerk 
entered. 

"I  shall  not  see  any  one,"  the  chief  announced.  "I  don't 
want  to  be  interrupted.  Take  these  to  Smythe." 

His  eyes  followed  the  shutting  of  the  door,  then  turned 
square  upon  Rickard.  "I  need  you.  It's  a  hell  of  a 
mess!" 

The  engineer  wanted  to  know  what  kind  of  a  "mess" 
it  was. 

"That  river.  It's  running  away  from  them.  It's  always 
going  to  run  away  from  them.  I'm  going  to  send  you 
down  to  stop  it." 

"The  Colorado!"  exclaimed  Rickard.  It  was  no  hose 
to  be  turned,  simply,  off  from  a  garden  bed  I 

"Of  course  you've  been  following  it?  It's  one  of  the 
biggest  things  that's  happened  in  this  part  of  the  world. 

9 


io  THE   RIVER 

Too  big  for  the  men  who  have  been  trying  to  swing  it. 
You've  followed  it  ?" 

"Yes."  Queer  coincidence,  reading  that  report  just 
now !  "I've  not  been  there.  But  the  engineering  papers 
used  to  get  to  me  in  Mexico.  I've  read  all  the  reports." 

His  superior's  question  was  uncharacteristically  su 
perfluous.  Who  had  not  read  with  thrilled  nerves  of  that 
wild  river  which  men  had  been  trying  to  put  under  work- 
harness?  Who,  even  among  the  stay-at-homes,  had  not 
followed  the  newspaper  stories  of  the  failure  to  make  a 
meek  servant  and  water-carrier  of  the  Colorado,  that 
wild  steed  of  mountain  and  desert?  What  engineer,  no 
matter  how  remote,  would  not  "follow"  that  spectacular 
struggle  between  men  and  Titans? 

"Going  to  send  me  to  Salton  ?"  he  inquired.  The  rail 
road  had  been  kept  jumping  to  keep  its  feet  dry.  His 
job  to  be  by  that  inland  sea  which  last  year  had  been 
desert ! 

"No.  Brainerd  is  there.  He  can  manage  the  tracks. 
I  am  going  to  send  you  down  to  the  break." 

Rickard  did  not  answer.  He  felt  the  questioning  eyes 
of  his  chief. 

"Down  to  the  break,"  repeated  Tod  Marshall,  his 
bright  black  eyes  taking  in  every  detail  of  the  engineer's 
get-up,  resting,  finally,  on  his  sunburned  face.  "Have 
one  ?"  He  offered  Rickard  his  choice  of  two  small  black 
cigars. 

"Thanks,  no,"  said  Rickard. 

"Not  smoking  yet  ?" 

"Not  yet."  Rickard  was  amused  at  the  solicitude.  It 
was  as  though  he  had  asked:  "Your  mother  is  dying?" 

"When  will  the  penance  be  over?"  Marshall  lighted 
his  cigar,  watching  the  blue  blaze  of  the  sulphur-tipped 


A   BIT   OF   ORATORY  11 

match,  the  slow  igniting  of  the  tobacco — obviously  an 
exquisite  sensuous  rite. 

"It  isn't  a  penance !  It's  an  experiment.  I  never  had 
to  do  anything  I  really  hated  to  do.  I've  never  had  to 
deny  myself  anything.  Some  fellows  have  to  give  up 
studying  the  profession  they  love,  go  to  some  hard  dig 
ging"  or  other,  to  support  somebody.  I've  been  lucky.  I 
discovered  I  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word 
'sacrifice/  I  buckled  down,  and  gave  up  the  thing  I 
liked  best.  That's  all  that  amounts  to." 

His  words  had  a  solemn  effect.  Marshall  had  stopped 
smoking.  Rickard  discovered  that  his  confidence  had 
been  tactless.  Few  men  had  had  to  sacrifice  so  much  as 
the  one  now  somberly  facing  him.  His  home,  first,  be 
cause  a  civil  war  had  crushed  it ;  his  refuge,  then,  after 
years  in  attics,  and  struggle  with  post-bellum  prejudices, 
just  as  success  met  him  there;  the  fulness  of  life  as  men 
want  it — those  eyes  knew  what  sacrifice  meant ! 

"When  are  you  going  to  quit?"  Marshall's  face  was 
still  sober. 

"When  am  I  going  to  quit  quitting?"  laughed  his  sub 
ordinate.  "I  haven't  thought  it  out,  sir.  When  it  comes 
to  me,  the  inclination,  I  suppose.  I've  lost  the  taste  for 
tobacco."  The  break — where  those  Hardins  were — how 
in  thunder  was  he  going  to  get  out  of  that,  and  save  his 
skin?  Marshall  liked  his  own  way — 

Marshall  had  resumed  his  cigar.  "We'll  consider  it 
settled,  then."  His  minute  of  introspection  was  over.  He 
had  picked  up  his  thread. 

"Who's  in  charge  there?"  Rickard  was  only  gaining 
time.  He  thought  he  knew  the  name  he  would  hear. 
Marshall's  first  word  surprised  him. 

"No  one.     Up  to  a  few  months  ago,  it  was  Hardin, 


T2  THE   RIVER 

Tom  Hardin.  He  was  general  manager  of  the  company. 
He  was  allowed  to  resign,  to  save  his  face,  as  the  Chinese 
say.  I  may  tell  you  that  it  was  a  case  of  firing.  He'd 
made  a  terrible  fluke  down  there/' 

"I  know,"  murmured  Rickard.  It  was  growing  more 
difficult,  more  distasteful.  If  Marshall  wanted  him  to 
supplant  Hardin!  It  had  been  incredible,  that  man's 
folly !  Reckless  gambling,  nothing  else.  Make  a  cut  in 
the  banks  of  a  wild  river,  without  putting  in  head-gates 
to  control  it ;  a  child  would  guess  better !  It  was  a  prob 
lem  now,  all  right;  the  writer  of  the  report  he'd  just 
read  wasn't  the  only  one  who  was  prophesying  failure. 
Let  the  river  cut  back,  and  the  government  works  at 
Laguna  would  be  useless ;  a  nice  pickle  Hardin  had  made. 

Still  to  gain  time,  he  suggested  that  Marshall  tell  him 
the  situation.  "I've  followed  only  the  engineering  side 
of  it.  I  don't  know  the  relationship  of  the  two  com 
panies." 

"Where  the  railroad  came  in?  The  inside  of  that 
story?  I'm  responsible — I  guaranteed  to  Faraday  the 
closing  of  that  break.  There  was  a  big  district  to  save, 
a  district  that  the  railroad  tapped — but  I'll  tell  you  that 
later."  He  was  leisurely  puffing  blue,  perfectly  formed 
rings  into  the  air,  his  eyes  admiring  them. 

"Perhaps  you've  heard  how  Estrada,  the  gen 
eral,  took  a  party  of  men  into  the  desert  to  sell  a  mine 
he  owned.  After  the  deal  was  made,  he  decided  to  let 
it  slip.  He'd  found  something  bigger  to  do,  more  to  his 
liking  than  the  sale  of  a  mine.  Estrada  was  a  big  man, 
a  great  man.  He  had  the  idea  Powell  and  others  had,  of 
turning  the  river,  of  saving  the  desert.  He  dreamed 
himself  of  doing  it.  If  sickness  hadn't  come  to  him,  the 
Colorado  would  be  meekly  carrying  water  now,  instead 


A    BIT   OF    ORATORY  13 

of  flooding  a  country.  Pity  Eduardo,  the  son,  is  not  like 
him.  He's  like  his  mother,  you  never  know  what  they 
are  dreaming  about.  Not  at  all  alike,  my  wife  and 
Estrada's." 

Then  it  came  to  Rickard  that  he  had  heard  somewhere 
that  Marshall  and  General  Estrada  had  married  sisters, 
famous  beauties  of  Guadalajara.  He  began  to  piece 
together  the  personal  background  of  the  story. 

"It  was  a  long  time  before  Estrada  could  get  it 
started,  and  it's  a  long  story.  As  soon  as  he  began,  he 
was  knocked  down.  Other  men  took  hold.  You'll  hear 
it  all  in  the  valley.  Hardin  took  a  day  to  tell  it  to 
me!  He  sees  himself  as  a  martyr.  Promoters  got  in; 
the  thing  swelled  into  a  swindle,  a  spectacular  swindle. 
They  showed  oranges  on  Broadway  before  a  drop  of 
water  was  brought  in.  Hardin  has  lots  of  grievances ! 
He'd  made  the  original  survey.  So  when  he  sued  for 
his  back  wages,  he  took  the  papers  of  the  bankrupt  com 
pany  in  settlement.  He's  a  grim  sort  of  ineffectual  bull 
dog.  He's  clung  with  his  teeth  to  the  Estrada  idea. 
And  he's  not  big  enough  for  it.  He  uses  the  optimistic 
method — gives  you  only  half  of  a  case,  half  of  the 
problem,  gets  started  on  a  false  premise.  Well,  he  got 
up  another  company  on  that  method,  the  Desert  Reclama 
tion  Company,  tried  to  whitewash  the  desert  project; 
it  was  in  bad  odor  then,  and  he  managed  to  bring  a  few 
drops  of  water  to  the  desert." 

"It  was  Hardin  who  did  that?" 

"But  he  couldn't  deliver  enough.  The  cut  silted  up. 
He  cut  again,  the  same  story.  He  was  in  a  pretty  bad 
hole.  He'd  brought  colonists  in  already,  he'd  used  their 
money,  the  money  they'd  paid  for  land  with  water,  to 
make  the  cuts.  No  wonder  he  was  desperate." 


14  THE   RIVER 

It  recalled  the  man  Rickard  had  disliked,  the  rough 
shod,  loud-voiced  student  of  his  first  class  in  engineer 
ing.  That  was  the  man  who  had  made  the  flamboyant 
carpets  of  the  Holmes'  boarding-house  impossible  any 
longer  to  him.  He  had  a  sudden  disconcerting  vision 
of  a  large  unfinished  face  peering  through  the  honey 
suckles  at  a  man  and  a  girl  drawing  apart  in  confusion 
from  their  first,  and  last,  kiss.  He  wanted  to  tell  Mar 
shall  he  was  wasting  his  time. 

"Overwhelmed  with  lawsuits,"  Marshall  was  saying. 
"Hardin  had  to  deliver  water  to  those  colonists.  It  was 
then  that  he  ran  over  into  Mexico,  so  as  to  get  a  better 
gradient  for  his  canal,  and  made  his  cut  there.  You 
know  the  rest.  It  ran  away  from  him.  It  made  the 
Salton  Sea." 

"Did  he  ever  give  you  any  reason,"  frowned  Rickard 
reminiscently,  "any  reasonable  reason  why  he  made  that 
cut  without  any  head-gate  ?" 

"No  money !"  shrugged  Marshall,  getting  out  another 
cigar.  "I  told  you  he's  a  raw  dancer,  always  starts  off 
too  quick,  begins  on  the  wrong  foot.  Oh,  yes,  he  has 
reasons,  lots  of  them,  that  fellow,  but  as  you  say,  they're 
not  reasonable.  He  never  waits  to  get  ready." 

Why  was  it  that  the  face  of  the  half-sister  came  to 
Rickard  then,  with  that  look  of  sensitive  high-breeding 
and  guarded  reserve?  And  she,  a  Hardin!  Sister  to 
that  loud-spilling  mouth!  Queer  cards  nature  deals! 
And  pretty  cards  Marshall  was  trying  to  deal  out  to 
him.  Go  down  there,  and  finish  Hardin's  job,  show  him 
up  to  be  the  fumbler  he  was,  give  him  orders,  give  the 
husband  of  Gerty  Holmes  orders — ! 

"It  was  Hardin  who  came  to  me,  but  not  until  he'd 


A   BIT   OF   ORATORY  15 

tried  everything  else.  They'd  worked  for  months  trying 
to  dam  the  river  with  a  few  lace  handkerchiefs,  and 
perhaps  a  chiffon  veil !"  Marshall  was  twinkling  over 
his  own  humor.  "Hardin  did  put  up  a  good  talk.  It  was 
true,  as  he  said;  we'd  had  to  move  our  tracks  three, 
no,  four  times,  at  Salton.  It  was  true  that  it  ought  to  be 
one  of  the  richest  districts  tapped  by  the  O.  P.  But  he 
clenched  me  by  a  clever  Hait — to  put  out  a  spur  in  Mex 
ico  which  would  keep  any  other  railroad  off  by  a  fifty- 
mile  parallel,  and  there  the  sand-hills  make  a  railroad 
impossible. 

"The  government  must  eventually  come  to  the  rescue. 
Their  works  at  Laguna  hang  on  the  control  of  the  river 
down  at  the  Heading.  Once,  he  told  me — I  don't  know 
how  much  truth  there  was  in  it — the  Service,  Reclama 
tion  Service,  did  try  to  buy  up  their  plant  for  a  paltry 
sum.  He  wouldn't  sell.  The  short  is,  I  recommended 
long-sighted  assistance  to  Faraday.  I  promised  to  turn 
that  river,  save  the  district.  We  expected  before  the 
year  was  out  to  have  the  government  take  the  responsi 
bility  off  our  hands." 

Rickard  made  an  impatient  shrug.  A  nice  problem 
Marshall  had  taken  unto  himself.  He  wanted  none  of 
it.  Hardin — the  thing  was  impossible. 

He  met  laggardly  Marshall's  story.  He  heard  him  say : 
"Agreed  with  Faraday.  The  Desert  Reclamation  Com 
pany  was  as  helpless  as  a  swaddled  infant.  We  made 
the  condition  that  we  reorganize  the  company.  I  was 
put  in  Hardin's  place  as  president  of  the  corporation, 
and  he  was  made  general  manager.  Of  course,  we  had 
to  control  the  stock.  We  put  up  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars— Hardin  had  estimated  it  would  cost  us  less  than 


16  THE  RIVER 

half  that !  It's  cost  us  already  a  million.  Things  haven't 
been  going  right.  Faraday's  temper  burst  out,  and  Har- 
din,  a  while  back  was  asked  to  resign." 

"And  it  is  Hardin's  position  that  you  want  me  to 
fill  ?"  His  voice  sounded  queer  to  himself,  dry,  mocking, 
as  if  any  one  should  know  what  an  absurd  thing  he  was 
being  asked  to  do.  He  felt  Marshall's  sharp  Indian 
eyes  on  him,  as  if  detecting  a  pettiness.  Well,  he  didn't 
care  how  Marshall  interpreted  it.  That  place  wasn't 
for  him. 

"I  want  you  in  control  down  there."  Rickard  knew 
he  was  being  appraised,  balanced  all  over  again.  It 
made  no  difference — 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  was  beginning,  when  Marshall  cut  in. 

"Good  lord,  you  are  not  going  to  turn  it  down  ?" 

He  met  Marshall's  incredulous  stare.  "It's  a  job  I'd 
I  ump  at  under  most  circumstances.  But  I  can't  go,  sir." 

Tod  Marshall  leaned  back  the  full  swing  of  his  swivel 
chair,  blankly  astounded.  His  eyes  told  Rickard  that  he 
had  been  found  wanting,  he  had  white  blood  in  his  veins. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  think  of  me — pshaw,  it  is  absurd 
to  say  these  things.  You  know  that  I  know  it  is  an  honor 
to  be  picked  out  by  you  for  such  a  piece  of  work.  I'd 
like  to,— but  I  can't." 

The  president  of  railroads,  who  knew  men,  had  been 
watching  the  play  of  feature.  "Take  your  time,"  he 
said.  "Don't  answer  too  hastily.  Take  your  time." 

He  was  playing  the  fool,  or  worse,  before  Marshall, 
whom  he  respected,  whose  partisanship  meant  so  much. 
But  he  couldn't  help  it.  He  couldn't  tell  that  story — he 
knew  that  Marshall  would  brush  it  aside  as  a  child's 
episode.  He  couldn't  make  it  clear  to  the  man  whose 


A   BIT    OF   ORATORY  17 

stare  was  balancing  him  why  he  could  not  oust  Tom 
Hardin. 

"Is  it  a  personal  reason?"  Marshall's  gaze  had  re 
turned  to  his  ring-making. 

Rickard  admitted  it  was  personal. 

"Then  I  don't  accept  it.  I  wouldn't:  He  your  friend 
if  I  didn't  advise  you  to  disregard  the  little  thing,  to 
take  the  big  thing.  Maybe,  you  are  going  to  be  married." 
He  did  not  wait  for  Rickard's  vigorous  negative.  "That 
can  wait.  The  river  won't.  Maybe  it's  some  quixotic 
idea,  like  your  smoking;  for  God's  sake,  Rickard,  don't 
be  quixotic.  It's  fine  to  be  quixotic,  magnificent,  when 
you're  young.  Oh,  you  are  young  to  me.  But  when 
you're  no  longer  young?  When  you  see  the  opportunity 
you  did  not  take  wasted,  or  made  splendid,  even,  by 
some  other  man  ?  Look  at  me !  I  could  have  foresworn 
the  South,  taken  a  different  name  after  the  war,  said  I 
was  from  England,  or  from  New  England.  I  could  have 
made  a  decent  living.  What  did  I  do?  It  seemed  glo 
rious  to  the  youngster  who  had  been  fighting  for  his 
idea  of  justice  to  fight  against  such  a  handicap — a  beaten 
southerner.  And  I  did  fight.  I  fought  poverty,  cold — I 
had  a  mother  back  there — I  was  hungry,  often.  Sick, 
and  couldn't  go  to  a  doctor  who  might  have  warned  me, 
because  I  hadn't  a  cent  in  my  pocket.  And  so,  when  I 
was  where  I  wanted  to  be,  where  I'd  struggled  up  to  be, 
had  my  hand  on  the  life  I  loved,  in  the  city  I  loved,  with 
the  woman  I  loved,  I  was  knocked  down,  banished  to  this 
desert  if  I  wanted  to  live  a  few  more  years!  Where 
if  I  eat  gruel,  sleep  a  child's  night  sleep,  give  up  all  the 
things  a  man  of  red  blood  likes  to  do,  I  may  live!  If 
you'd  call  it  that!  Just  because  I'd  had  no  one  to  talk 


iS  THE   RIVER 

to  me,  as  I'm  talking  to  you,  to  tell  me  I  was  a  young 
fool." 

Rickard  was  looking  intently  at  a  slit  in  the  colored 
awning.  He  did  not  answer. 

Marshall  looked  at  the  stiff  figure  facing  him.  "Your 
reason  may  be  sounder  than  mine,  less  highfalutin.  But 
look  at  it.  Balance  the  other  side.  Drop  yourself  out 
of  it.  There's  a  river  running  away  down  yonder,  ruin 
ing  the  valley,  ruining  the  homes  of  families  men  have 
carried  in  with  them.  I've  asked  you  to  save  them. 
There's  a  debt  of  honor  to  be  paid.  My  promise.  I 
have  asked  you  to  pay  it.  There's  history  being  written 
in  that  desert.  I've  asked  you  to  write  it.  And  you  say 


"No!  I  say  yes!"  clipped  Rickard.  The  Marshall 
oratory  had  swept  him  to  his  feet. 

The  dramatic  moment  was  chilled  by  their  Anglo- 
Saxon  self-consciousness.  An  awkward  silence  hung. 
Then: 

"When  can  you  go?"  Marshall's  voice  dropped  from 
the  declamatory.  He  had  already  taken  up  a  pencil  and 
was  vaguely  scribbling  over  a  writing  pad. 

"To-day,  to-morrow,  the  first  train  out."  Rickard 
wondered  if  the  scrawls  had  anything  to  do  with  him. 

"Good!"  Marshall's  tone  was  hearty,  but  it  had  the 
finality  of  "good-by."  He  was  tracing  nebulous  figures, 
letters.  The  word,  "Oaxaca,"  ran  out  of  the  blur.  In 
stantly  his  mind  was  diverted. 

He  had  made  his  appeal,  won  his  point.  An  hour  later, 
perhaps,  he  would  be  honest  in  denying  the  paternity 
of  some  of  his  flowery  phrases  were  he  to  be  confronted 
by  the  children  of  his  brain.  His  word  of  honor  —  he 


A   BIT    OF   ORATORY  19 

had  used  as  his  climax.  He  had  never  thought  of  his 
business  talk  with  Faraday  in  that  light  before,  and 
never  would  again.  It  was  a  tool,  picked  up  for  his 
need  and  thrown  away. 

Already,  he  was  revolving  a  spur  he  was  planning  for 
Oaxaca,  in  Southern  Mexico.  An  inspiration  had  come 
to  him  on  his  walk  from  The  Rosales  that  morning. 
His  pencil  made  some  rapid  calculations. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  glanced  up  at  the  clock,  and 
saw  Rickard  standing,  as  at  attention. 

"Ah!"     He  allowed  his  absorption  to  betray  him. 

"I  should  be  off,"  discovered  Rickard. 

"Oh,  no,"  replied  the  president  of  several  railroads, 
looking  at  the  clock  again. 

"Any  instructions?" 

"Just  stop  that  river !" 

Rickard  again  had  a  humorous  vision  of  himself, 
asked  to  take  away  a  bursting  hose  from  a  garden  bed. 
"How  am  I  limited?"  he  persisted.  He  stooped  for  his 
straw  hat. 

Marshall,  still  intrigued  by  his  figures,  looked  up  pa 
tiently,  inquiringly,  nibbling  the  end  of  his  pencil. 

"The  expense?"  demanded  the  engineer.  "How  far 
can  I  go?" 

"Damn  the  expense!"  cried  Tod  Marshall.  "Just  go 
ahead." 

He  had  begun  a  swift  pencil  map  of  the  province  of 
Oaxaca  before  Rickard  was  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  BLESSING  OF  ARIDITY 

WHEN  Rickard  left  the  main  line  at  Imperial 
Junction  the  next  afternoon,  his  eyes  followed 
the  train  he  was  deserting  rather  than  the  one  that 
was  to  carry  him  to  his  new  labors.  He  felt  again  the 
thrill  of  detachment  that  invariably  preceded  his  en 
trance  into  a  new  country.  With  the  pulling  up  of  the 
porter's  green-carpeted  stool,  the  slamming  of  the  train 
gates,  the  curtain  fell  on  the  Tucson  set  scene. 

The  long  line  of  cars  was  pushing  off  with  its  linen- 
covered  Pullmans  and  diners,  steaming  down-grade  to 
ward  the  Sink,  the  depression  which  had  been  prime 
val  sea,  and  then  desert,  and  was  now  sea  again.  Old 
Beach,  rechristened  Imperial  Junction  for  railroad  con 
venience,  was  itself  lower  than  the  ancient  sea-line 
where  once  the  gulf  had  reached.  Rickard  knew  he  could 
find  shells  at  that  desert  station  should  he  look  for  them. 
He  picked  up  his  bag  that  the  porter  had  thrown  on 
the  ground  and  faced  the  rung-down  curtain. 

Its  painted  scene  was  a  yellow  station  house  broiling 
under  a  desert  sun ;  a  large  water-tank  beyond,  and  in  the 
distance  the  inevitable  cardboard  mountains,  like  prop 
erty  scene-shifts,  flat  and  thin  in  their  unreal  hues  of 
burnished  pink  and  purple.  A  dusty  accommodation 
train  was  backing  and  switching,  picking  up  the  empty 

20 


THE    BLESSING   OF   ARIDITY  21 

refrigerator  cars  to  carry  into  the  valley  for  the  early 
melon  growers. 

Already,  the  valley  had  asserted  its  industrial  impor 
tance;  the  late  rampage  of  the  Colorado  had  made  it 
spectacular.  Those  who  would  pay  little  attention  to 
the  opening  of  a  new  agricultural  district  in  the  heart 
of  a  dreaded  desert  opened  their  ears  to  the  vagary  of 
the  river  which  had  sportively  made  of  a  part  of  that 
desert  an  inland  sea.  Scientists  were  rushing  their 
speculations  into  print ;  would  the  sea  dwindle,  by  evap 
oration,  as  it  had  done  before?  Or  would  the  overflow 
maintain  the  paradoxical  sea? 

The  flood  signs  were  apparent.  There,  cracks  had 
split  the  desert  sand;  here,  water  fissures  had  menaced 
the  track;  and  to  the  south,  a  fringe  of  young  willows 
hid  the  path  of  the  Colorado's  debouch.  JTheJbuxniug 
desert  sands  jrried  out  3  sharp  antithesis.  The  yellow 
railway  housebore  all  the  parched  signs  of  a  desert 
station.  Even  the  women,  with  children  in  their  arms, 
did  not  attempt  to  sit  in  the  stifling  waiting-room;  they 
preferred  to  stand  in  the  glare. 

The  men  crowding  the  platform  wore  the  motley  of 
a  new  country.  In  Tucson,  the  uniform  of  the  male 
citizens,  with  the  exception  of  those  reckless  ones  who 
found  inevitably  that  lotus  is  a  liquid,  was  the  wilted 
pretense  of  a  gentle  civilization;  despondent  ducks  and 
khakis  and  limp  collars.  Imperial  Junction  marked  the 
downfall  of  the  collar.  The  rest  of  the  composite  cos 
tume  was  irregular,  badly  laundered  and  torn,  faded 
and  sunburned;  the  clothes  of  the  desert  soldier.  Rick- 
ard  saw  buttonless  shirts,  faded  overalls,  shabby  hats — 
the  sombrero  of  Mexico.  The  faces  under  the  broad- 


22  THE   RIVER 

brimmed  hats  made  a  leaping  impression  upon  him  of 
youth  and  eagerness.  He  noted  a  significant  average 
of  intelligence  and  alertness.  This  was  not  the  indolent 
group  of  men  which  makes  a  pretense  of  occupation 
whenever  a  train  comes  in! 

"Going  in?"  asked  a  voice  at  his  ear.  A  pair  of 
faded  eyes  set  in  a  young-old  face,  whether  early  with 
ered  or  well-preserved  he  had  not  time  to  determine, 
was  staring  at  him. 

He  assured  his  interlocutor  that  he  was  going  in.  His 
mood  isolated  the  phrase;  its  significance  vastly  differ 
ent  from  "going  on." 

"Buying?" 

"I  think  not." 

"It  is  a  good  time  to  buy."  Rickard  suspected  a  real- 
estate  agent.  "For  land  is  low,  rock-bottom  prices  on 
account  of  the  uneasiness  about  the  river.  People  are 
afraid.  They  want  to  see  the  company  redeem  some  of 
its  promises  before  they  come  in ;  and  the  company  isn't 
in  much  of  a  hurry." 

Rickard  raised  his  chin  that  his  collar  might  bind  his 
suffering  neck  in  a  different  place,  and  then  asked  what 
company  he  referred  to. 

The  young-old  face  with  the  faded  eyes  looked  at  him 
in  surprise.  "The  D.  R.  Company,  Desert  Reclamation, 
which  brought  us  all  here." 

"Scamps?"  The  newcomer's  survey  of  the  long  line 
of  naked  mountains  and  lean  lands  that  formed  the  neck 
of  the  valley  gave  a  snub  of  casualness  to  the  question. 

"No.  Fools !"  The  answer  was  as  swift  as  a  bullet. 
"Though  some  people  think  them  worse  than  that.  I 
don't  go  so  far,  I'm  willing  to  say  they've  tried.  I'll 
say  that  much.  But  they  haven't  the  know-how." 


THE   BLESSING   OF   ARIDITY  23 

"I'd  rather  be  a  scamp  than  a  fool,"  ventured  Rickard. 
"It's  more  progressive."  He  drew  a  look  of  amused 
recognition  from  the  faded  valley  man. 

"Newspaper  man?  No?  They  are  always  coming 
in  now  since  the  break.  I'm  usually  able  to  spot  them." 

"You've  spotted  wrong  once,"  smiled  Rickard,  pick 
ing  up  his  bag.  The  engine  was  backing  the  made-up 
train  toward  the  station. 

The  crowd  pushed  forward.  "No  offense,  I  hope," 
called  the  sun-dried  face  over  the  heads  of  the  press. 
"I've  done  a  little  of  it  myself." 

The  window  seats,  Rickard  could  see,  were  filled  be 
fore  the  cars  halted,  by  the  experienced  ones  who  had 
not  waited  for  the  train  to  be  made  up.  In  the  scramble, 
he  spied  a  vacant  window  on  the  sunny  side,  and  made 
for  it.  Seated,  he  looked  for  his  talkative  friend  who 
was  already  opening  office  farther  down  the  car.  A 
stranger  dropped  into  the  seat  beside  him. 

Every  window  in  the  car  was  open.  Each  red-vel- 
veted,  dusty  seat  was  filled.  A  strong  desert  wind  was 
blowing  sand  into  their  faces,  discoloring  the  seats  and 
covering  the  floor. 

The  engineer  turned  to  his  companion  who  was  cough 
ing. 

"Do  you  mind  this  window  being  open?" 

"I'd  mind  if  it  were  not.  It's  always  bad  at  the  Junc 
tion.  When  we  get  into  the  cultivated  country,  you  will 
see  what  the  valley  will  be  like  when  it  is  all  planted. 
The  wind  is  not  bad  when  it  blows  over  grain  or  alfalfa. 
It  is  the  desert  dust  that  nags  one."  He  coughed  again. 
"Going  in?" 

Rickard  said  he  was  going  in. 

"Are  you  going  to  settle  in  the  valley?"    The  inquis- 


24  THE   RIVER 

itor  was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  Rickard  decided,  with  a 
desert  tan  of  apparent  health.  His  face  was  clear-cut 
and  intelligent. 

"I  don't  know/' 

"Just  looking  the  country  over?" 

"You  might  call  it  that." 

"Go  slow,"  admonished  his  companion.  "Don't  let 
yourself  be  carried  away.  It  is  a  wonderful  country. 
But  go  slow.  It's  the  ones  who  expect  to  make  millions 
the  first  year  that  become  the  worst  knockers.  Go  slow, 
I  always  tell  them.  Go  slow." 

"It's  not  a  good  time  to  buy  then?" 

"Not  so  good  as  it  was  ten  years  ago!  But  land  is 
cheaper  than  it  was  a  year  back.  In  some  districts  you 
can  buy  a  good  farm  for  a  ticket  back  home,  the  farmers 
are  so  discouraged.  Cold  feet."  The  slang  sounded 
oddly,  somehow.  The  man's  voice  had  the  cultivated 
precision  of  the  purist.  "Cold  feet.  The  river's  chilled 
them.  The  valley's  losing  faith  in  the  company." 

"What  company?"  inquired  Rickard  again. 

"There's  but  one  company  to  the  valley,  the  one  that 
brought  them  here,  the  D.  R.  They  don't  call  the  rail 
road  The  Company.  They  have  nothing  to  do  with  that 
problem.  They  won't  recognize  that  problem!  It's  had 
hard  luck  from  the  first,  the  D.  R.  At  the  very  start, 
the  wrong  man  got  hold  of  it.  Sather,  the  first  promoter, 
was  a  faker;  a  pretty  thorough  faker.  The  company 
reorganized,  but  it's  been  in  bad  odor  with  the  public 
ever  since." 

Rickard's  eyes  left  the  deep  cuts  in  the  land  made 
by  the  ravaging  waters,  and  looked  at  his  companion. 

"I  thought  Estrada  was  the  original  promoter  ?"  he 
inquired. 


THE   BLESSING   OF   ARIDITY  25 

"Estrada's  a  recent  comer — oh,  you  mean  the  gen 
eral.  He  started  the  ball  rolling;  that  was  all.  Bad 
health,  following  the  Bliss  complication,  tied  his  hands. 
Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  of  the  way  he  colonized 
his  grant?" 

Rickard  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  a  good  story.  I  wrote  it  once  for  the  Sun.  I 
was  out  here  then.  That  was  before  the  doctors  sent  me, 
giving  me  a  year  if  I  lived  anywhere  else.  Reclamation 
was  being  talked  even  then.  Estrada  picked  up  the  en 
thusiasm,  and  got  hold  of  a  big  slice  of  land.  The  terms 
of  his  purchase  were  a  few  cents  an  acre,  fifteen,  if  I 
remember  correctly,  and  a  hundred  colonists  to  be  estab 
lished  the  first  year.  Estrada  sent  in  his  hundred  fam 
ilies,  and  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  mention  to  the 
government  that  he  was  paying  the  so-called  colonists 
a  dollar  a  day.  They  earned  their  dollar — it  was  big 
money  in  those  days,  two  dollars  Mexican — by  digging 
a  canal.  When  the  inspector  came  along — there  were 
the  hundred  families.  After  he  was  safely  out  of  the 
country,  Estrada  paid  and  dismissed  his  colonists.  He 
had  the  mile  or  so  of  canal  and  his  tract  besides.  What's 
the  difference  between  fifteen  cents  and  a  hundred  dol 
lars  ?  Multiply  that  by  a  million  and  a  half,  and  you  can 
see  what  those  colonists  were  to  bring  to  Estrada. 
Though  they  say  he  died  poor." 

The  man  in  the  seat  ahead  was  listening.  His  head 
was  leonine,  his  body  shriveled.  Rickard  could  see  on 
the  neck  the  ancient  burns  that  had  spared  the  magnifi 
cent  head.  The  rest  of  the  man  had  been  shriveled  and 
twisted  into  terrible  deformity.  Rickard  found  himself 
puzzling  over  the  accident  with  its  accompanying  miracle. 
There  was  not  a  scar  on  the  powerful  face. 


26  THE  RIVER 

"Estrada's  business  methods  were  then  not  different 
from  Sather's  and  Hardin's !"  It  was  a  deep  rich  organ. 

"Oh,  you  can't  class  Hardin  with  Sather,"  protested 
Rickard's  companion.  "Sather  used  Hardin.  Hardin's 
honesty  can  not  be  questioned.  It's  not  money  he's  after. 
His  whole  heart  is  in  this  reclamation  scheme." 

"Hardin's  a  false  alarm,"  growled  the  owner  of  the 
massive  head.  "He  makes  promises.  He  never  keeps 
them."  Ap(Y 

The  older  man's  smile  was  tolerant.  "Barton,"  he  in 
dicated,  "is  the  president  of  the  water  companies.  And 
if  you  want  to  hear  about  a  rogue  and  a  scoundrel,  ask 
the  water  companies  their  opinion  of  Hardin." 

"Well,  what  sort  of  a  hole  has  he  got  us  into?"  de 
manded  the  other  with  heat. 

"Hardin's  in  a  hole  himself." 

Rickard  found  himself  admiring  the  distinction  in  the 
face  beside  him.  The  sharp-pointed  beard  in  which  the 
gray  was  appearing  gave  a  dog-like  keenness  to  the  well- 
modeled  head,  but  the  sharpness  of  the  features,  of  the 
long  slender  nose,  the  long  chin  and  thin  eyebrow  lines 
were  offset,  curiously,  by  the  mildness,  the  resignation, 
in  the  steady  gray  eyes.  If  fires  had  ever  burned  in 
them,  there  were  but  cold  ashes  left. 

"No  one  seems  to  remember  that  he  crucified  himself 
to  save  the  valley.  I've  a  great  respect  for  Thomas 
Hardin." 

"Yes?"  returned  Rickard,  whose  liking  had  been  cap 
tured  by  the  speaker. 

The  impression  of  distinction  sharpened.  The  stranger 
wore  a  laundered,  pongee  silk  shirt,  open  at  the  neck, 
but  restricted  by  a  brown  silk  tie;  and  it  was  trimly 
belted.  There  were  but  two  neckties  in  the  entire  car, 


THE   BLESSING   OF  ARIDITY  27 

and  they  occupied,  Rickard  observed,  the   same   seat. 

"The  beginning  of  the  canal  system." 

Rickard  looked  out  upon  a  flat  one-toned  country, 
marked  off  in  rectangles  by  plows  and  scrapers.  Farther 
south,  those  rectangles  were  edged  by  young  willows. 
He  fancied  he  could  see,  even  at  that  distance,  the  gleam 
of  water. 

It  was  the  passing  of  the  desert.  A  few  miles  back, 
he  had  seen  the  desert  in  its  primitive  nakedness  which 
not  even  cactus  relieved.  He  was  passing  over  the  land 
which  men  and  horses  were  preparing  for  water.  And 
he  could  see  the  land  where  water  was. 

"That  was  the  way  Riverside  looked  when  I  first  saw 
it,"  commented  the  other  man  who  wore  a  tie.  "Come 
out  on  the  rear  platform.  We  can  see  better." 

Rickard  followed  to  the  back  of  the  dust-swept  stifling 
car.  The  glare  on  the  platform  was  intense.  He  stood 
watching  the  newly  made  checker-board  of  a  country 
slip  past  him.  Receding  were  the  two  lines  of  gleaming 
steel  rails  which  connected  and  separated  him  from  the 
world  outside.  He  was  "going  in."  Not  in  Mexico 
even  had  he  had  such  a  feeling  of  ultimate  remoteness. 
The  mountains,  converging  perspectively  toward  the 
throat  of  the  valley,  looked  elusive  and  unreal  in  their 
gauze  draperies  of  rose  and  violet.  The  tender  hour  of 
day  was  clothing  them  with  mystery,  softening  their 
sharp  outlines.  They  curtained  the  world  beyond.  Rick 
ard  felt  the  suspense  of  the  next  act. 

It  was  a  torpid  imagination,  he  thought,  which  would 
not  quicken  over  this  conquest  of  the  desert.  East  of 
the  tract,  men  and  teams  were  preparing  the  newly-fur 
rowed  ground  for  the  seed.  The  curved  land-knives 
were  breaking  up  the  rich  earth  mold  into  ridges  of 


28  THE   RIVER 

soft  soil  as  uncohesive  and  feathery  as  pulverized  choco 
late.  It  was  the  dark  color  of  the  chocolate  of  com 
merce,  this  silt  which  had  been  pilfered  from  the  states 
through  which  the  vagrant  river  wandered.  The  smell 
of  the  upturned  earth,  sweetly  damp,  struck  against  his 
nostrils.  Rickard  indulged  a  minute  of  whimsical  fancy ; 
this  was  California  territory  over  which  his  train  was 
passing,  but  the  soil,  that  dark  earth  those  blades  were 
crumbling,  was  it  not  the  tribute  of  other  states,  of  des 
poiling  Wyoming,  of  ravishing  Colorado  and  Arizona? 

To  the  west,  new  squares  were  being  leveled  and  out 
lined.  Shrubby  rectangles  were  being  cleared  of  their 
creosote-bush  and  tough  mesquit.  Compared  with  other 
countries,  the  preparation  for  planting  was  the  simplest. 
Horses  were  dragging  over  the  ground  a  railroad  rail 
bent  into  a  V  angle  which  pulled  the  bushes  by  the  roots 
and  dragged  them  out  of  the  way.  Beyond,  farther 
west,  could  be  seen  the  untouched  desert.  The  surface 
for  many  miles  was  cracked  by  water-lines,  broken  and 
baked  into  irregular  sand-cakes ;  the  mark  of  sand  which 
has  been  imprisoned  by  water  and  branded  by  swift 
heat. 

Close  by,  men  were  putting  in  with  care  the  seed  that 
was  to  quicken  the  river  silt.  They  were  passing  a  square 
where  the  green  tips  of  the  grain  were  piercing  the 
ground.  Now,  they  were  abreast  of  a  field  of  matured 
alfalfa  over  which  the  wind  raced  gratefully.  Desert 
and  grain  field ;  death  and  life !  The  panorama  embraced 
the  whole  cycle. 

"Excuse  me.  I  did  not  hear  you."  His  new  acquaint 
ance  had  been  endeavoring  to  get  his  attention. 

The  valley  man  tried  to  pitch  his  voice  above  the 


THE    BLESSING   OF   ARIDITY  29 

rattle  of  the  train,  but  the  effort  ended  in  spasmodic 
coughing.  The  attacks  left  him  weak  and  gasping. 

"Better  go  back,"  suggested  Rickard.  He  followed  the 
stranger  who  waved  him  to  the  seat  by  the  open  win 
dow.  He  busied  himself  with  the  sliding  landscape, 
withholding  his  sympathy.  He  could  hear  the  man  draw 
ing  in  long  deep  breaths.  "Poor  devil!  He's  had  his 
sentence !"  he  gathered. 

After  a  few  minutes,  the  other  leaned  over  his  shoul 
der,  his  hand  waving  toward  the  passing  mountains. 
"Those  are  the  Superstition  Mountains  you  can  see  over 
yonder.  An  unusually  apt  name." 

"Yes?" 

"An  accidental  hit  of  some  tired  traveler,"  hazarded 
the  colorless  lips.  "He  had  probably  been  listening  to 
the  legends  of  some  unusually  garrulous  Indian ;  could 
not  find  the  germ  of  universal  religion  in  the  simple  creed, 
so  he  called  it, — the  nameless  mountains — 'Superstition/ 
I've  always  wished  I  knew  his  own  name,  that  we  might 
credit  him,  this  late,  with  the  inspiration.  Have  you  ever 
thought,"  he  deflected,  "how  many  familiar  names  are 
unsponsored?  Take  the  Colorado,  for  instance.  Mel- 
chior  Diaz  called  it  the  Rio  del  Tizon;  Alarc,on,  for 
diplomatic  reasons,  gave  it  Rio  de  la  Buena  Guia ;  Onate 
changed  it  to  the  Rio  Grande  de  Buena  Esperanza,  and 
it  was  Kino,  the  Jesuit  padre,  who  christened  it  in 
memory  of  the  blessed  martyrs  Rio  de  los  Martires.  Who 
called  it  first  the  Colorado  ?  History  shuts  her  lips.  And 
who  will  ever  call  it  anything  else?" 

Rickard  was  attracted  by  the  man's  educated  inflec 
tion,  as  well  as  by  his  musing.  "Why  Superstition  ?"  he 
queried. 


30  THE   RIVER 

"Why  is  it  good,  you  mean?  That  pile  of  dark  rock 
stands  as  a  monument  to  an  effete  superstition.  It  is 
the  gravestone  for  a  gigantic  mistake.  Why,  it  was  only 
the  grossest  ignorance  that  gave  to  the  desert  the  label 
of  'bad  lands/  The  desert  is  a  condition,  not  a  fact. 
Here  you  see  the  passing  of  the  condition,  the  burial  of 
the  superstition.  Are  you  interested  in  irrigation?" 

Rickard  was  not  given  to  explain  the  degree  of  interest 
his  profession  involved,  for  the  stranger  drew  a  painful 
breath,  and  went  on. 

"Of  course  you  are,  if  you  are  a  western  man.  You 
are,  I  think?" 

The  engineer  said  that  he  was,  by  choice. 

"Irrigation  is  the  creed  of  the  West.  Gold  brought 
people  to  this  country ;  water,  scientifically  applied,  will 
keep  them  here.  Look  at  this  valley.  What  was  it  a 
few  years  ago?  Look  at  Riverside.  And  we  are  at  the 
primer  stage  only.  We  are  way  behind  the  ancients  in 
information  on  that  subject.  I  learned  at  school,  so  did 
you,  that  some  of  the  most  glorious  civilizations  flour 
ished  in  spite  of  the  desert  which  surrounded  them.  That 
was  only  half  a  truth.  They  were  great  because  of  it! 
Why  did  the  Incas  choose  the  desert  when  their  strength 
gave  them  the  choice  of  the  continent  of  South  America  ? 
Why  did  the  Aztecs  settle  in  the  desert  when  they  might 
easily  have  preempted  the  watered  regions  ?  Then  there 
are  the  Carthaginians,  the  Toltecs,  the  Moors.  And  one 
never  forgets  Egypt!" 

"For  protection,"  Rickard  gave  the  slighted  question 
an  interested  recognition.  "Was  that  not  what  we  were 
taught  at  school?  The  forest  held  foes,  animal  and 
human.  Those  nations  grew  to  their  strength  and  power 
in  the  desert,  by  virtue  of  its  isolation." 


THE    BLESSING   OF   ARIDITY  31 

"Superstition!"  retorted  the  man  with  the  pointed 
beard.  "We  are  babes  at  the  breast  measured  by  the 
wisdom  of  the  men  who  settled  Damascus,  or  compared 
with  the  Toltecs,  or  those  ancient  tribes  who  settled  in 
Northern  India.  They  recognized  the  value  of  aridity. 
They  knew  its  threefold  worth/' 

"An  inherent  value  ?"  demanded  the  college-bred  man, 
turning  from  the  window. 

"An  inherent  value,"  declared  the  exponent  of  aridity. 

"Will  you  tell  me  just  what  you  mean?" 

"Not  in  one  session!  Look  yonder.  That's  Brawley. 
When  I  came  through  here,  ten  years  ago,  I  could  have 
had  my  pick  of  this  land  at  twenty-five  cents  an  acre. 
They  were  working  at  this  scheme  then — on  paper.  I 
was  not  alive  to  the  possibilities  then ;  I  had  not  yet  lived 
in  Utah!" 

The  train  was  slowing  up  by  a  brand-new,  yellow- 
painted  station.  There  were  several  dusty  automobiles 
waiting  by  the  track,  a  few  faded  surreys,  and  the  in 
evitable,  country  hotel  bus.  The  platform  was  swarming 
with  alert  vigorous  faces,  distinctly  of  the  American 
type. 

The  man  in  the  seat  beside  him  asked  Rickard  if  he 
observed  the  general  average  of  intelligence  in  the  faces 
of  the  crowd  below.  Rickard  acknowledged  that  he  had 
been  struck  by  that,  not  only  here,  but  at  Imperial  Junc 
tion,  where  he  had  waited  for  the  train. 

"There  is  a  club  in  the  valley,  lately  started,  a  univer 
sity  club  which  admits  as  members  those  who  have  had  at 
least  two  years  of  college  training.  The  list  numbers 
three  hundred  already.  The  first  meeting  was  held  last 
week  in  an  empty  new  store  in  Imperial.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  the  setting,  we  might  have  been  at  Ann  Arbor 


32  THE   RIVER 

or  Palo  Alto.  The  costumes  were  a  little  motley,  but 
the  talk  sounded  like  home." 

The  dust,  blowing  in  through  the  car  doors,  brought 
on  another  fit  of  strangling.  Rickard  turned  again  to  the 
window,  to  the  active  scene  which  denied  the  presence 
of  desert  beyond. 

"The  doctors  say  it  will  have  to  be  the  desert  always 
for  me."  The  stranger  tapped  his  chest  significantly. 
"But  it  is  exile  no  longer — not  in  an  irrigated  country. 
For  the  reason  of  irrigation !  It  is  the  progressive  man, 
the  man  with  ideas,  or  the  man  who  is  willing  to  take 
them,  who  comes  into  this  desert  country.  If  he  has 
not  had  education,  it  is  forced  upon  him.  I  saw  it 
worked  out  in  Utah.  I  was  there  several  years.  Irriga 
tion  means  cooperation.  That  is,  to  me,  the  chief  value 
of  aridity." 

The  wind,  though  still  blowing  through  the  car  and 
ruffling  the  train  dust,  was  carrying  less  of  grit  and  sand. 
To  the  nostrils  of  Rickard  and  his  new  acquaintance,  it 
brought  the  pleasing  suggestion  of  grassy  meadows,  of 
willow-lined  streams  and  fragrant  fields. 

"It  is  the  accepted  idea  that  this  valley  is  attracting  a 
superior  class  of  men  because  of  its  temperance  stand. 
It  is  the  other  way  round.  The  valley  stood  for  temper 
ance  because  of  the  sort  of  men  who  had  settled  here, 
the  men  of  the  irrigation  type." 

The  engineer's  ear  criticized  "irrigation  type."  He 
began  to  suspect  that  he  had  picked  up  a  crank. 

"The  desert  offers  a  man  special  advantages,  social, 
industrial  and  agricultural.  (I  would  invert  that  ar 
rangement  if  I  made  over  that  sentence!)  It  is  no  ac 
cident  that  you  find  a  certain  sort  of  man  here." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  the  struggle  necessary  to 


THE   BLESSING   OF   ARIDITY  33 

develop  such  a  country,  under  such  stern  conditions,  de 
velops  of  necessity,  strong  men  ?"  evolved  Rickard.  "Oh, 
yes,  I  believe  that,  too." 

"Oh,  more  than  that.  It  is  not  so  much  the  struggle, 
as  the  necessity  for  cooperation.  The  mutual  depend 
ence  is  one  of  the  blessings  of  aridity." 

"One  of  the  blessings  of  aridity !"  echoed  his  listener. 
"You  are  a  philosopher."  He  had  not  yet  touched  the 
other's  thought  at  the  spring. 

"You  might  as  well  call  me  a  socialist  because  I  praise 
irrigation  in  that  it  stands  for  the  small  farm  unit,"  re 
torted  the  valley  man.  "That  is  one  of  its  fiats ;  the 
small  unit.  It  is  the  small  farm  that  pays.  That  fact 
brings  many  advantages.  What  is  the  charm  of 
Riverside  ?  It  comes  to  me  always  like  the  unreal  dream 
of  the  socialist  come  true.  It  is  a  city  of  farms,  of  small 
farms,  where  a  man  may  make  his  living  off  his  ten  acres 
of  oranges,  or  lemons;  and  with  all  the  comforts  and 
conveniences  of  a  city  within  reach,  his  neighbors  not 
ten  miles  off !  A  farmer  in  Riverside,  or  in  any  irrigated 
community,  does  not  have  to  postpone  living  for  him 
self  or  his  family,  until  he  can  sell  the  farm!  He  can 
go  to  church,  can  walk  there ;  the  trolley  car  which  passes 
his  door  takes  him  to  a  public  library,  or  the  opera- 
house.  His  children  ride  to  school.  His  wife  does  not 
need  to  be  a  drudge.  The  bread  wagon  and  the  steam 
laundry  wagon  stop  at  her  door." 

Rickard  observed  that  perhaps  he  did  not  know  any 
thing  about  irrigation  after  all!  He  had  not  thought 
of  it  before  in  its  sociological  relation,  but  merely  as  it 
touched  his  profession. 

"Not  going  into  soil  values,  for  that  is  a  long  story," 
began  the  older  man,  "irrigation  is  the  answer  which 


34  THE   RIVER 

) 

science  gives  to  the  agriculturist  who  is  impatient  of 
haphazard  methods.  Irrigation  is  not  a  compromise, 
as  so  many  believe  who  know  nothing  about  it.  It  is  a 
distinct  advantage  over  old-fashioned  methods." 

"I  am  one  of  those  who  always  thought  it  a  compro 
mise,"  admitted  the  engineer. 

"Better  call  rain  a  compromise,"  retorted  the  irriga- 
tionist.  "The  man  who  irrigates  gives  water  to  the  tree 
which  needs  it ;  rain  nourishes  one  tree,  and  drowns  out 
another.  Irrigation  is  an  insurance  policy  against 
drought,  a  guarantee  against  floods.  The  farmer  who 
has  once  operated  an  irrigated  farm  would  be  as  impa 
tient  were  he  again  subjected  to  the  caprice  of  rain  as 
a  housewife  would  be  were  she  compelled  to  wait  for 
rain  to  fill  her  wash-tub.  There  is  no  irregularity  or 
caprice  about  irrigation." 

"Wonder  how  the  old  fellow  picked  it  all  up?"  mused 
Rickard  with  disrespect.  Aloud  he  said — "You  were 
speaking  of  the  value  of  the  soil?" 

"Look  at  the  earth  those  plows  are  turning  over.  See 
how  rich  and  friable  it  is,  how  it  crumbles?  You  can 
dig  for  hundreds  of  feet  and  still  find  that  sort  of  soil, 
eight  hundred  feet  down !  It  is  disintegrated  rock  and 
leaf  mold  brought  in  here  in  the  making  of  a  delta. 
Heavy  rainfalls  are  rare  here,  though  we  have  had  them, 
in  spite  of  popular  opinion.  Were  we  to  have  frequent 
rains,  the  chemical  properties,  which  rain-farmers  must 
buy  to  enrich  their  worn-out  soils,  would  be  leached 
out,  drained  from  the  soil.  I  can't  make  this  compre 
hensive,  but  I've  a  monograph  on  desert  soil.  If  you  are 
interested,  I'll  send  it  to  you." 

"I  should  like  it — immensely,"  assented  the  engineer, 
still  amused. 


THE    BLESSING   OF   ARIDITY  35 

"It  explains  the  choice  of  the  Aztecs,  of  the  Incas,  of 
Carthaginians,  the  Moors,"  observed  the  stranger.  "They 
chose  the  desert,  not  in  spite  of  the  soil,  but  because  of 
it.  I  doubt  if  they  were  awake  to  the  social  advantages 
of  the  system,  but  it  was  their  cooperative  brotherhood 
that  helped  them  to  their  glory.  We  are  centuries  be 
hind  them.  Look  what  the  acceptance  of  the  supersti 
tion  has  already  cost  California!  The  Mexican  Boun 
dary  Survey  Commission  did  its  work  pretty  thoroughly 
until  familiarity  with  the  bad  lands  they  were  plodding 
through  confirmed  the  old  superstition.  The  interna 
tional  line  was  to  cut  across  at  the  mouth  of  Hardy's 
Colorado.  When  the  surveyors  struck  the  Gila,  they 
assumed  it  was  the  river  they  wanted  it  to  be ;  anyway, 
it  did  not  matter;  it  was  'bad  land/  where  even  the 
Indians  were  thinning,  where  only  scorpions  and  rattlers 
could  flourish.  The  line  was  drawn  there,  and  California 
lost  all  that  area  of  desert  land.  However,  a  lady  got 
her  silk  gown !" 

The  last  words  were  as  spice  to  a  tasteless  puddingy 
"A  silk  gown !"  It  sounded  piquant. 

"That's  a  page  of  unwritten  history,"  said  the  stranger, 
rising.  "I'm  getting  out  here;  Imperial.  If  you  come 
up  to  Imperial,  look  me  up.  Brandon's  my  name.  I've 
no  card  these  days!" 

"There  are  several  things  I  want  to  hear  from  you," 
answered  Rickard,  rising  also,  and  following  the  pointed 
beard  to  the  platform.  "I'll  be  sure  to  look  you  up. 
Mine's  Rickard." 

"There's  my  residence,"  waved  Brandon.  "That  tent 
over  yonder?"  All  of  Imperial  was  easily  seen  from 
the  car  platform.  "No,  that  is  a  canvas  house.  There 
is  a  great  difference, — in  distinction !" 


36  THE   RIVER 

Rickard  liked  the  nicety  of  speech  which  to  the  critical 
ear  is  as  pleasing  as  wit.  He  watched  Brandon  step  off 
the  car,  saw  him  greeted  and  surrounded  by  a  knot  of 
station  watchers. 

"Hello,  Brandon,"  Rickard  could  hear  them  hail  him. 
"Back  home,  Brandon?"  "Treated  you  well  at  Palm 
Springs  ?" 

"Poor  devil,"  he  thought  again.  "Trying  Palm  Springs 
for  his  cough.  Wonder  who  the  old  duck  is.  Country 
newspaper,  I  fancy.  He  did  say  he  had  reported  for  the 
Sun." 

The  young-old  man  who  had  spoken  to  him  at  the 
Junction,  pushed  past  with  some  bundles.  He  stopped 
when  he  saw  Rickard. 

"I  get  out  here.  If  you  come  to  Imperial,  hunt  me 
up.  I  run  the  Star,  the  only  newspaper  in  the  valley. 
Glad  to  meet  you." 

"Disposing  of  my  theory  about  Brandon,"  smiled  the 
engineer,  going  back  into  the  dusty  car.  He  was  inter 
ested  enough  to  lean  over  and  ask  Barton  who  was  the 
man  called  Brandon.  They  could  see  him  from  the  win 
dows,  still  surrounded,  still  smiling  that  sweet  ascetic 
smile. 

"Captain  Brandon  they  call  him.  He's  one  of  the  old 
settlers.  Was  with  Powell,  on  the  second  expedition 
down  the  river.  Then  was  one  of  the  big  men  on  the 
Sim"  He  tapped  his  chest  significantly.  "Bad;  came 
West,  folks  thought  to  die.  There's  lots  of  grit  in  the 
old  fellow.  He's  written  a  history  of  the  Colorado  River 
that  reads  like  a  novel,  they  say.  I've  never  read  it.  I 
never  read  books.  I'm  lucky  if  I  can  get  time  for  a  news 
paper,  and  I  don't  often  get  a  newspaper." 


THE    BLESSING    OF   ARIDITY  37 

Rickard  observed  that  "Captain  Brandon"  seemed  to 
be  well  informed  on  the  subject  of  irrigation. 

"That's  his  hobby,  that  and  desert  soil.  He's  writing 
a  book  on  irrigation,  not  half  done  yet,  but  it's  already 
sold.  He's  published  a  pamphlet  on  desert  soil.  Oh, 
he  knows  his  subject." 

"College  man?" 

"Harvard,  I  think,  and  then  either  an  English  or  Ger 
man  university.  I've  heard,  but  I've  forgotten  by  now. 
He's  lived  in  the  West,  everywhere  they've  tried  irriga 
tion;  in  Utah,  Colorado,  California,  and  he's  been  to 
Egypt  and  Syria  and  all  the  classic  places.  Studying, 
but  he  came  back  again,  nearly  dead.  He  goes  up  to 
Palm  Springs  every  little  while  to  get  toned  up,  taken 
care  of.  Poor  devil !" 

The  breeze,  which  was  now  entering  the  car  windows, 
had  blown  over  clover-leafed  fields.  Its  message  was 
sweet  and  fresh.  Rickard  could  see  the  canals  leading 
off  like  silver  threads  to  the  homes  and  farms  of  the 
future;  "the  socialists'  dream  come  true!"  Willows  of 
two  or  three  years'  growth  outlined  the  banks.  Here 
and  there  a  tent,  or  a  ramada,  set  up  a  brave  defiance 
against  the  hard  conditions  of  the  land  it  was  invading. 
Rickard  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  looked  back,  up 
the  valley  which  was  dominated  by  the  range  now  wrap 
ping  around  itself  gauzy  iridescent  draperies. 

"The  monument  to  an  effete  superstition !"  he  repeated. 
"That  wasn't  a  bad  idea.  I  hope  he  won't  forget  to 
send  me  his  monograph." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  DESERT  HOTEL 

HE  left  the  dusty  car  with  relief  when  the  twin 
towns  were  called.  The  sun,  plunging  toward 
the  horizon,  was  sending  out  long  straight  shafts  of 
yellow  light,  staining  the  railroad  buildings  a  deeper 
hue  and  playing  queer  tricks  with  faces  and  features. 
The  yellow  calcium  isolated  two  stalwart  Indians  whose 
painted  faces  and  streaming  black  hair,  chains  of  tawdry 
beads  and  floating  ribbons  made  the  vacuity  of  their 
brown  masks  a  grotesque  contrast.  Their  survey  of  the 
train  and  the  jostling  passengers,  was  as  dispassionate 
and  incurious  as  though  this  brisk  invasion  carried  no 
meaning  nor  menace  to  them. 

Rickard  had  expected  to  see  a  Mexican  town,  or  at 
least  a  Mexican  influence,  as  the  towns  hugged  the 
border,  but  it  was  as  vividly  American  as  was  Imperial 
or  Brawley.  There  was  the  yellow-painted  station  of 
the  Overland  Pacific  lines,  the  water-tank,  the  eager 
American  crowd.  Railroad  sheds  announced  the  termi 
nal  of  the  road.  Backed  toward  the  station  was  the  in 
evitable  hotel  bus  of  the  country  town,  a  painted  board 
hanging  over  its  side  advertising  the  Desert  Hotel.  Be 
fore  he  reached  the  step,  the  vehicle  was  crowded. 

"Wait,  gen'lemen,  I'm  coming  back  for  a  second 
load,"  called  the  darky  who  was  holding  the  reins. 

38 


THE   DESERT   HOTEL  39 

"If  you  wait  for  the  second  trip,  you  won't  get  a 
room,"  suggested  a  friendly  voice  from  the  seat  above. 

Rickard  threw  his  bag  to  the  grinning  negro,  and 
swung  on  to  the  crowded  steps. 

Leaving  the  railroad  sheds,  he  observed  a  building 
which  he  assumed  was  the  hotel.  It  looked  promising, 
attractive  with  its  wide  encircling  veranda  and  the  patch 
of  green  which  distance  gave  the  dignity  of  a  lawn.  But 
the  darky  whipped  up  his  stolid  horses.  Rickard's 
eyes  followed  the  patch  of  green. 

The  friendly  voice  from  above  told  him  that  that  was 
the  office  of  the  Desert  Reclamation  Company.  His  next 
survey  was  more  personal.  He  saw  himself  entering  the 
play  as  the  representative  of  a  company  that  was  dis 
trusted,  if  not  indeed  actively  hated  by  the  valley  folk. 
It  amused  him  that  his  entrance  was  so  quiet  as  to  be 
surreptitious.  It  would  have  been  quieter  had  Marshall 
had  his  way.  But  he  himself  had  stipulated  that  Hardin 
should  be  told  of  his  coming.  He  had  seen  the  telegram 
before  it  left  the  Tucson  office.  He  might  be  assuming 
an  unfamiliar  role  in  this  complicated  drama  of  river  and 
desert,  but  it  was  not  to  be  as  an  eavesdropper. 

"Going  in  to  settle  ?"  The  friendly  voice  belonged,  he 
could  see  through  the  press  of  arms  and  limbs,  to  a  pair 
of  alert  eyes  and  a  faded  buttonless  shirt  that  had  once 
been  blue. 

"I  did  that  before  I  left!"  He  was  tired  of  the  ques 
tion. 

There  was  a  laugh  from  the  seats  above. 

"Going  to  try  Calexico?" 

"I  think  Calexico  is  going  to  try  me !  If  this  dust  is 
a  sample!" 

"Wonder  if  they  are  so  eager  to  welcome  settlers  be- 


40  THE   RIVER 

cause  they  are  all  real-estate  agents,  or  if  the  valley  move 
ment  is  a  failure?"  reflected  the  newcomer. 

The  heavy  bus  was  plowing  slowly  through  the  dust 
of  the  street.  Rickard  was  given  ample  time  to  note  the 
limitations  of  the  new  town.  They  passed  two  brick 
stores  of  general  merchandise ;  lemons  and  woolen  goods, 
stockings  and  crackers  disporting  fraternally  in  their 
windows.  A  board  sign  swinging  from  the  overhang 
ing  porch  of  the  most  pretentious  building  announced  the 
post-office.  From  a  small  adobe  hung  a  brass  plate  ad 
vising  the  stranger  of  the  Bank  of  Calexico.  The  'dobe 
pressed  close  to  another  two-storied  structure  of  the 
desert  type.  The  upper  floor,  supported  by  posts,  ex 
tended  over  the  sidewalk.  Netted  wire  screened  away 
the  desert  mosquito,  and  gave  the  overhanging  gallery 
the  grotesque  appearance  of  a  huge  fencing  mask.  From 
the  street  could  be  seen  rows  of  beds;  as  in  hospital 
wards.  Calexico,  it  was  seen,  slept  out-of-doors. 

"Desert  Hotel,"  bawled  the  darky,  reining  in  his 
placid  team. 

"Yes,  sah,  I'll  look  out  for  your  bag.  Got  your  room  ? 
The  hotel's  mighty  sure  to  be  full.  Not  many  women 
yit  down  this  a-way.  .  .  .  All  the  men  mostly  lives 
right  heah  at  the  hotel." 

Rickard  made  a  dive  from  a  swirl  of  dust  into  the 
hotel.  The  long  line  he  anticipated  at  the  desk  was  not 
there.  He  stopped  to  take  in  a  valley  innovation.  One 
end  of  the  long  counter  had  been  converted  into  a  soda- 
water  bar.  The  high  swivel  stools  in  front  of  the  white 
marbled  stand,  with  its  towering  silver  fixtures,  were 
crowded  with  dust-parched  occupants  of  the  bus.  A 
white-coated  youth  was  pouring  colored  sirups  into  tall 
glasses ;  there  was  a  clinking  of  ice ;  a  sizzling  of  siphons. 


THE   DESERT    HOTEL  41 

"That's  a  new  one  on  me,"  grinned  Rickard,  turning 
toward  the  desk  where  a  complacent  proprietor  stood 
waiting  to  announce  that  there  was  but  one  room  left. 

"With  bath?" 

"Bath  right  across  the  hall.  Only  room  left  in  the 
house."  The  proprietor  awarded  him  the  valley  stare. 
"Going  to  be  here  long  ?"  He  passed  the  last  key  on  the 
rack  to  the  darky  staggering  under  a  motley  of  bags 
and  suit-cases.  Rickard  recognized  his,  and  followed. 

"I  may  get  you  anothei  room  to-morrow,"  called  the 
proprietor  after  him  as  he  climbed  the  dusty  stairs. 

Rickard  decided  that  the  one  room  was  not  only  hot 
and  stifling,  but  dirty.  The  darky  thrust  his  bag 
through  the  door  and  left  the  guest  staring  at  the  bed. 
He  pulled  back  the  covers ;  dust  and  sand  of  apparently 
a  week's  accumulation  lined  the  sheets.  The  red,  gaily- 
flowered,  Brussels  carpet  was  gritty  with  sand.  Rickard 
rubbed  a  reflective  finger  over  the  surface  of  the  golden- 
oak  bureau. 

A  middle-aged  chambermaid  with  streaming  rusty 
hair,  entering  without  ceremony,  caught  his  grimace. 

"It's  not  as  bad  as  it  looks.  I  cleaned  it  up  this  morn 
ing.  It's  the  wind.  Ain't  it  awful?  I've  known  people 
to  come  into  this  place  when  the  wind  has  been  blowing 
as  it  has  to-day,  and  seen  them  leave  as  soon  as  they  seen 
their  bed.  They  had  to  come  back,  as  there's  no  other 
place  to  go,  and  they'd  be  no  better  if  there  was.  But 
Mr.  Patton,  that's  the  boss,  has  me  go  around  regular 
now,  and  explain.  It  saves  his  time.  I'll  fix  it  up  for 
you,  so  you  can  be  easy  as  to  its  being  new  dirt.  It'll 
be  just  as  bad  as  this  when  you  come  to  go  to  bed." 

Rickard  washed  his  hands,  and  fled,  leaving  the 
berserker  to  the  clouds  of  fury  she  had  evoked.  The 


42  THE  RIVER 

soda-counter  was  deserted.  The  youth,  divested  of  his 
white  coat,  was  relieving  Mr.  Patton  at  the  register. 
Rickard  followed  the  sound  of  voices. 

The  signals  of  a  new  town  were  waving  in  the  dining- 
room.  The  majority  of  the  citizens  displayed  their  shirt 
sleeves  and  unblushing  suspenders.  One  large  table  was 
surrounded  by  men  in  khaki ;  the  desert-soldiers,  engi 
neers.  The  full  blown  waitresses,  elaborately  pompa- 
doured,  were  pushing  through  the  swing-doors,  carrying 
heavy  trays.  Their  transparent  shirt-waists  of  coarse 
embroidery  or  lace  were  pinned  to  rusty,  badly  hung 
skirts  of  black  alpaca.  An  apron,  the  size  of  a  postage 
stamp,  was  the  only  badge  of  servitude.  Coquetry  ap 
peared  to  be  their  occupation,  rather  than  meal-serving, 
the  diners  accepting  both  varieties  of  attention  with  ap 
preciation.  The  supremacy  of  those  superior  maidens 
was  menaced  only  by  two  other  women  who  sat  at  a 
table  near  the  door.  Rickard  did  not  see  them  at  first. 
The  room  was  as  masculine  as  a  restaurant  in  a  new 
mining  town. 

A  superior  Amazon  inquired  if  the  gentleman  would 
like  vermicelli  soup?  As  he  did  not  even  glance  at  her 
magnificent  pompadour,  he  was  punished  by  being  served 
last  through  the  entire  bill  of  fare. 

He  had  two  men  at  his  table.  They  were  engrossed 
with  their  course  of  boiled  beef  and  spaghetti.  Iced  tea, 
instead  of  wine,  was  the  only  variation  from  the  con 
ventional,  country  hotel  dinner. 

Rickard  left  his  indoor  view  to  look  through  the 
French  windows  opening  on  a  side  street.  He  noticed 
a  slender  but  regular  procession.  All  the  men  passing 
fell  in  the  same  direction. 


THE   DESERT    HOTEL  43 

"Cocktail  route,"  explained  one  of  his  neighbors,  his 
mouth  full  of  boiled  beef. 

"Oyster  cocktail?"  smiled  the  newcomer.  <. 

"The  real  thing !  Calexico's  dry,  like  the  whole  valley, 
that  is,  the  county.  See  that  ditch  ?  That  is  Mexico,  on 
the  other  side.  Those  sheds  you  can  see  are  in  Mexicali,  •> 
Calexico's  twin  sister.  That  painted  adobe  is  the  cus 
tom  house.  Mexicali's  not  dry,  even  in  summer!  You 
can  bet  your  life  on  that.  You  can  get  all  the  bad 
whisky  and  stale  beer  you've  the  money  to  buy.  We 
work  in  Calexico,  and  drink  in  Mexicali.  The  temper 
ance  pledge  is  kept  better  in  this  town  than  any  other 
town  in  the  valley.  But  you  can  see  this  procession  every 
night." 

The  Amazon  with  a  handkerchief  apron  brought 
Rickard  his  soup.  He  was  raising  his  first  spoonful  to 
his  mouth  when  he  saw  the  face,  carefully  averted,  of 
the  girl  he  had  met  at  the  Marshalls'  table,  Innes  Hardin. 
His  eyes  jumped  to  her  companions,  the  man  a  stranger, 
and  then,  GertyHolmes.  At  least.  MrsvHardinJ_J5pme- 
how,  it  surprised  him  to  find  her  pretty. 

She  had  achieved  a  variety  of  distinction,  preserving, 
moreover,  the  clear-cut  babyish  chin  which  had  made  its 
early  appeal  to  him.  There  was  the  same  fluffy  hair, 
its  ringlets  a  bit  artificial  to  his  more  sophisticated  eyes, 
the  same  well-turned  nose.  He  had  been  wondering 
about  this  meeting;  he  found  that  he  had  been  expect 
ing  some  sort  of  shock — who  said  that  the  love  of  to 
day  is  the  jest  of  to-morrow?  The  discovery  that  Gerty 
was  not  a  jest  brought  the  surprised  gratification  which 
we  award  a  letter  or  composition  written  in  our  youth. 
Were  we  as  clever  as  that,  so  complete  at  eighteen  or 


44  THE   RIVER 

twenty-one  ?  Could  we,  now,  with  all  our  experience,  do 
any  better,  or  indeed  as  well?  That  particular  sentence 
with  wings !  Could  we  make  it  fly  to-day  as  it  soared 
yesterday?  Rickard  was  finding  that  Gerty's  more  ma 
ture  charms  did  not  accelerate  his  heart-beats,  but  they 
were  certainly  flattering  to  his  early  judgment.  And 
he  had  expected  her  to  be  a  shock! 

He  was  staring  into  his  plate  of  chilled  soup.  Calf 
love!  For  he  had  loved  her,  or  at  least  he  had  loved 
her  chin,  her  pretty  childish  way  of  lifting  it.  She  was 
prettier  than  he  had  pictured  her.  Queer  that  a  man 
like  Hardin  could  draw  such  women  for  sister  and  wife 
— the  blood  tie  was  the  most  amazing.  For  when  women 
come  to  marry,  they  make  often  a  queer  choice.  It  oc 
curred  to  him  that  that  might  have  been  Hardin — he 
had  not  wanted  to  stare  at  them. 

That  was  not  Hardin's  face.  It  held  strength  and 
power.  The  outline  was  sharp  and  distinct,  showing  the 
strong  lines,  the  determined  mouth  of  the  pioneer.  There 
was  something  else,  something  which  stood  for  distinc 
tion — no,  it  couldn't  be  Hardin. 

And  then,  because  an  outthrust  lip  changed  the  entire 
look  of  the  man,  Rickard  asked  his  table  companions, 
who  was  the  man  with  the  two  ladies,  near  the  door. 

"That,  suh,"  his  neighbor  from  Alabama  became  im 
mediately  oratorical,  "that  is  a  big  man,  suh.  If  the  Im 
perial  Valley  ever  becomes  a  reality,  a  fixtuah,  it  will  be 
because  of  that  one  man,  suh.  Reclamation  is  like  a 
seed  thrown  on  a  rock.  Will  it  stick  ?  Will  it  take  root  ? 
Will  it  grow?  That  is  what  we  all  want  to  know." 

Rickard  thought  that  he  had  wanted  to  know  some 
thing  quite  different,  and  reminded  the  gentleman  from 
Alabama  that  he  had  not  told  him  the  name. 


THE    DESERT    HOTEL  45 

"The  father  of  this  valley,  of  the  reclamation  of  this 
desert,  Thomas  Hardin,  suh." 

Rickard  tried  to  reset,  without  attracting  their  atten 
tion,  the  group  of  his  impressions  of  the  man  whose 
personality  had  been  so  obnoxious  to  him  in  the  old 
Lawrence  days.  The  Hardin  he  had  known  had  also 
large  features,  but  of  the  flaccid  irritating  order.  He 
summoned  a  picture  of  Hardin  as  he  had  shuffled  into 
his  own  class  room,  or  up  to  the  long  table  where  Gerty 
had  always  queened  it  among  her  mother's  boarders.  He 
could  see  the  rough  unpolished  boots  that  had  always 
offended  him  as  a  betrayal  of  the  man's  inner  coarse 
ness;  the  badly  fitting  coat,  the  long  awkward  arms, 
and  the  satisfied,  loud-speaking  mouth.  These  features 
were  more  definite.  Could  time  bring  these  changes? 
Had  he  changed,  like  that  ?  Had  they  seen  him  ?  Would 
Gerty,  would  Hardin  remember  him?  Wasn't  it  his 
place  to  make  himself  known;  wave  the  flag  of  old 
friendship  over  an  awkward  situation? 

He  found  himself  standing  in  front  of  their  table, 
encountering  first,  the  eyes  of  Hardin's  sister.  There 
was  no  surprise,  no  welcome  there  for  him.  He  felt 
at  once  the  hostility  of  the  camp.  His  face  was  uncom 
fortably  warm.  Then  the  childish  profile  turned  on  him. 
A  look  of  bewilderment,  flushing  into  greeting — the 
years  had  been  kind  to  Gerty  Holmes! 

"Do  you  remember  me,  Rickard?" 

If  Hardin  recognized  a  difficult  situation,  he  did  not 
betray  it.  It  was  a  man  Rickard  did  not  know  who 
shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  said  that  indeed 
he  had  not  forgotten  him. 

"I've  been  expecting  you.  My  wife,  Mr.  Rickard,  and 
my  sister." 


46  THE   RIVER 

"Why,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Tom  ?  To  introduce 
Mr.  Rickard!  I  introduced  you  to  each  other,  years 
ago!"  Gerty's  cheeks  were  red.  Her  bright  eyes  were 
darting  from  one  to  the  other.  "You  knew  he  was  com 
ing,  and  did  not  tell  me?" 

"You  were  at  the  Improvement  Club  when  the  tele 
gram  came,"  put  in  Innes  Hardin,  without  looking  at 
Rickard.  No  trace  of  the  Tucson  cordiality  in  that  proud 
little  face!  No  acknowledgment  that  they  had  met  at 
the  Marshalls' ! 

"Oh,  you  telegraphed  to  us?"  The  blond  arch  smile 
had  not  aged.  "That  was  friendly  and  nice." 

Rickard  had  not  been  self-conscious  for  many  a  year. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  say.  He  turned  from  her 
upturned  face  to  the  others.  Innes  Hardin  was  staring 
out  of  the  window,  over  the  heads  of  several  crowded 
tables;  Hardin  was  gazing  at  his  plate.  Rickard  de 
cided  that  he  would  get  out  of  this  before  Gerty  dis 
covered  that  it  was  neither  "friendly  nor  nice." 

"If  I  had  known  that  you  were  here,  I  would  have 
insisted  on  your  dining  with  us,  in  our  tent.  For  it's 
terrible,  here,  isn't  it?"  She  flashed  at  him  the  look  he 
remembered  so  vividly,  the  childish  coquettish  appeal. 
"We  dine  at  home,  till  it  becomes  tiresome,  and  then 
we  come  foraging  for  variety.  But  you  must  come  to 
us,  say  Thursday.  Is  that  right  for  you?  We  should 
love  it." 

Still  those  two  averted  faces.  Rickard  said  Thurs 
day,  as  he  was  bidden,  and  got  back  to  his  table,  wonder 
ing  why  in  thunder  he  had  let  Marshall  persuade  him 
to  take  this  job. 

Hardin  waited  a  scant  minute  to  protest:  "What 
possessed  you  to  ask  him  to  dinner?" 


THE   DESERT   HOTEL  47 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  He  is  an  old  friend."  Gerty  caught 
a  glance  of  appeal,  from  sister  to  brother.  "Jealous?" 
she  pouted  charmingly  at  her  lord. 

"Jealous,  no!"  bluffed  Hardin. 

He  thought  then  that  she  knew,  that  Innes  had  told 
her.  The  Lawrence  episode  held  no  sting  to  him.  Once, 
it  had  enchanted  him  that  he  had  carried  off  the  board 
ing-house  belle,  whom  even  that  bookman  had  found 
desirable — bookman !  A  superior  dude !  He  had  always 
had  those  grand  airs.  As  if  it  were  not  more  to  a  man's 
credit  to  struggle  for  his  education,  even  if  he  were 
older  than  his  class,  or  his  teacher,  than  to  accept  it  off 
silver  plates,  handed  by  lackeys?  Rickard  had  always 
acted  as  if  it  had  been  something  to  be  ashamed  of.  It 
made  him  sick. 

"They've  done  it  this  time.    It's  a  fool  choice." 

Again,  that  look  of  pleading  from  Innes.  Gerty  had  a 
shiver  of  intuition. 

"Fool  choice?"    Her  voice  was  ominously  calm. 

Hardin  shook  off  Innes'  eyes.  Better  be  done  with 
it!  "He's  the  new  general  manager." 

"He's  the  general  manager!" 

"I'm  to  take  orders  from  him." 

Gerty's  silence  was  of  the  stunned  variety.  The 
Hardins  watched  her  crumbling  bread  on  the  table-cloth, 
thinking,  fearfully,  that  she  was  going  to  cry. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?"  Her  voice,  repressed,  carried 
the  threat  of  tears.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  how  it  would  be  ? 
Didn't  I  say  that  you'd  be  sorry  if  you  called  the  rail 
road  in?" 

"Must  we  go  over  this  again  ?"  asked  her  husband. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  Why  did  you  let  me  make  a 
goose  of  myself?"  She  was  remembering  that  there  had 


48  THE   RIVER 

been  no  protest,  no  surprise  from  Innes.  She  knew! 
A  family  secret!  She  shrugged.  "I'm  glad,  on  the 
whole,  that  you  planned  it  as  a  surprise.  For  I  carried 
it  off  as  if  we'd  not  been  insulted,  disgraced." 

"Gerty!"  expostulated  Hardin. 

"Gerty !"  implored  Innes. 

"And  we  are  in  for  a  nice  friendly  dinner !" 

"Are  you  quite  finished?"    Hardin  got  up. 

As  the  three  passed  out  of  the  dining-room,  Rickard 
caught  their  several  expressions :  Hardin's  stiff,  indiffer 
ent  ;  Gerty's  brilliant  but  hard,  as  she  flashed  a  finished, 
brave  little  smile  in  his  direction.  The  sister's  bow  was 
distinctly  haughty. 

In  the  hall,  Gerty's  laugh  rippled  out.  It  was  the 
laugh  Rickard  remembered,  the  light  frivolous  cadence 
which  recalled  the  flamboyant  pattern  of  the  Holmes' 
parlor  carpet,  the  long,  crowded  dining-table  where 
Gerty  had  reigned.  It  told  him  that  she  was  indiffer 
ent  to  his  coming,  as  she  meant  it  should.  And  it  turned 
him  back  to  a  dark  corner  in  the  honeysuckle  draped 
porch  where  he  had  spent  so  many  evenings  with  her, 
where  once  he  had  held  her  hand,  where  he  told  her 
that  he  loved  her.  For  he  had  loved  her,  or  at  least 
he  thought  he  had!  And  had  run  away  from  her  ex 
pectant  eyes.  A  cad,  was  he,  because  he  had  brought 
that  waiting  look  into  her  eyes,  and  had  run  from  it? 

Should  a  man  ask  a  woman  to  give  her  life  into  his 
keeping  until  he  is  quite  sure  that  he  wants  it  ?  He  was 
revamping  his  worn  defense.  Should  he  live  up  to  a 
minute  of  surrender,  of  tenderness,  if  the  next  instant 
brings  sanity,  and  disillusionment?  He  could  bury  now 


THE   DESERT    HOTEL  49 

forever  self-reproach.  He  could  laugh  at  his  own  van 
ity.  Gerty  Hardin,  it  was  easy  to  see,  had  forgotten 
what  he  had  whispered  to  Gerty  Holmes.  They  met  as 
sober  old  friends.  That  ghost  was  laid. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  GAME  OF  CHECKERS 

THE  uneasy  mood  of  the  desert,  the  wind-blown 
sand,  drove  people  indoors  the  next  morning. 
Rickard  was  served  a  substantial,  indifferently  cooked 
breakfast  in  the  dining-room  of  the  Desert  Hotel,  whose 
limitations  were  as  conspicuous  to  the  newcomer  as  they 
were  non-existent  to  the  other  men.  They  were  rinding 
it  a  soft  contrast  to  sand-blown  tents,  to  life  in  the  open. 

Later,  he  wandered  through  the  group  of  staring  idlers 
in  the  office,  past  the  popular  soda-stand  and  the  few 
chair-tilters  on  the  sidewalk,  going  on,  as  if  without 
purpose,  to  the  railroad  sheds,  and  then  on,  down  to  the 
offices  of  the  Desert  Reclamation  Company.  He  dis 
covered  it  to  be  the  one  engaging  spot  in  the  hastily 
thrown-together  town.  There  were  oleanders,  rose  and 
white,  blooming  in  the  patch  of  purple  blossoming  al 
falfa  that  stood  for  a  lawn.  Morning-glories  clambered 
over  the  supports  of  the  veranda,  and  on  over  the  roof. 
Rickard's  deductions  led  him  to  the  Hardins. 

What  school  of  experience  had  so  changed  the  awk 
ward  country  fellow?  He  had  resented  his  rivalry,  not 
that  he  was  a  rival,  but  that  he  was  a  boor.  His  kisses 
still  warm  on  her  lips,  and  she  had  turned  to  welcome, 
to  coquet  with  Tom  Hardin!  The  woman  who  was  to 

50 


A   GAME    OF   CHECKERS  51 

be  his  wife  must  be  steadier  than  that!  It  had  cooled 
his  fever.  Not  for  him  the  aspen  who  could  shake  and 
bend  her  pretty  boughs  to  each  rough  breeze  that  blew ! 

Men  tossed  into  a  desert,  fighting  to  keep  a  foothold, 
do  not  garland  their  offices  with  morning-glories!  Was 
it  the  gracious  quiet  influence  of  a  wife,  a  Gerty  Har- 
din?  The  festive  building  he  was  approaching  was  as 
unexpected — as  Captain  Brandon!  Rickard  walked  on, 
smiling. 

He  was  fairly  blown  into  the  outer  room,  the  door 
banging  behind  him.  Every  one  looked  up  at  the  noisy 
interruption.  There  were  several  men  in  the  long  room. 
Among  them  two  alert,  clean-faced  youths,  college- 
graduates,  or  students  out  on  furlough,  the  kind  of  stuff 
in  his  class  at  Lawrence.  Three  of  the  seasoned,  road- 
coached  type  were  leaning  their  chairs  against  the  cool 
thick  walls.  One  was  puffing  at  a  cigar.  The  other,  a 
big  shy  giant,  was  drawing  clouds  of  comfort  from  a 
pipe.  There  was  a  telegraph  operator  at  work  in  one 
end  of  the  room,  her  instrument  rapidly  clicking.  In 
an  opposite  corner  was  a  telephone  exchange.  A  girl 
with  a  metal  band  around  her  forehead  was  punching 
connections  between  the  valley  towns.  Rickard  lost  the 
feeling  of  having  gone  into  a  remote  and  isolated  region. 
The  twin  towns  were  on  the  map. 

One  of  the  older  men  returned  his  nod.  The  young 
men  returned  their  hastily  withdrawn  attention  to  their 
game  of  checkers.  The  other  smoker  was  watching  with 
cross-eyed  absorption  the  rings  his  cigar  was  sending 
into  the  air.  Rickard  might  not  have  been  there. 

One  of  the  checker  players  looked  up. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you?  Do  you  want  to  see 
any  one  in  particular  ?" 


52  THE   RIVER 

"No,"  it  was  admitted.  "No  one  in  particular.  I  was 
just  looking  round." 

"It's  the  show  place  of  Calexico.  I'll  take  you  around. 
It  is  the  only  place  in  town  that  is  comfortable  when 
it's  hot,  or  when  the  wind  blows,  and  that's  the  program 
all  summer.  Take  my  place,  Pete." 

Pete,  the  young  giant,  with  the  face  of  his  infancy  en 
larged  rather  than  matured,  slipped  into  the  vacant  chair. 
He  had  been  the  first  to  discover  the  stranger,  but  he 
had  evaded  the  responsibility.  The  game  immediately 
absorbed  him. 

"It's  nice  here,"  repeated  the  young  fellow,  leading 
the  way.  They  were  followed  by  a  few  idle  glances. 

Rickard  looked  with  approval  at  the  tall  slim  figure 
which  was  assuming  the  courtesy  of  the  towns.  The 
fine  handsome  face  was  almost  too  girlish,  the  muscles 
of  the  mouth  too  sensitive  yet  for  manly  beauty,  but  he 
liked  the  type.  Lithe  as  a  young  desert-reared  Indian, 
his  manner  and  carriage  told  of  a  careful  home  and 
rigid  school  discipline. 

It  was  the  type  Rickard  liked,  he  was  thinking,  be 
cause  it  was  the  type  he  understood.  He  preferred 
the  rapier  to  the  bludgeon,  the  toughened  college  man 
to  the  world-veneered  man  of  the  field.  He  revered  the 
progress  of  a  Jefferson  or  a  Hamilton ;  he  would  always 
distrust  the  evolution  of  a  contemporary  Lincoln.  It  is 
easier,  he  maintained,  to  skip  classes,  or  grades  in  world 
discipline,  than  in  a  rigorous  college.  This  was  the  kind 
which  in  his  own  classes  had  attracted  him.  He  had 
missed  them  in  his  years  on  the  road — in  Mexico,  Wy 
oming,  North  Dakota,  where  rough  material  had  been 
his  to  shape. 

He  was  ushered  into  a  large  cool  room.    The  furnish- 


A   GAME   OF    CHECKERS  53 

ings  he  inventoried:  a  few  stiff  chairs,  a  long  table  and 
a  typewriter  desk,  closed  for  the  Sabbath. 

"The  stenographer's  room,"  announced  the  lad  super 
fluously. 

"Whose  stenographer  ?" 

"General  property,  now.  Every  one  has  a  right  to  use 
her  time.  She  used  to  be  Hardin's,  the  general  man 
ager's.  She  is  his  still,  in  a  way.  But  Ogilvie  keeps 
her  busy  most  of  the  time." 

Rickard  had  not  heard  of  Ogilvie.  He  made  a  mental 
register. 

"When  did  Hardin  go  out?"    He  knew  the  date  him 
self.    He  expected  the  answer  would  trail  wisps  of  other 
information.      He   had    a    very    active    curiosity    about    //' 
Hardin.     The  man's  failures  had  been  spectacular.          fl 

The  young  fellow  was  thinking  aloud.  "The  dam 
went  November  twenty-ninth.  Hardin  was  given  a 
decent  interval  to  resign.  Of  course,  he  was  fired.  It 
was  an  outrage — "  He  remembered  that  he  was  speak* 
ing  to  a  stranger,  and  broke  off  suddenly.  Rickard  did 
not  question  him.  He  made  another  note.  Why  was 
it  an  outrage,  or  why  did  it  appear  so?  In  perspective, 
from  the  Mexican  barranca,  where  he  had  been  at  the 
time,  the  failure  of  that  dam  had  been  another  bar 
sinister  against  Hardin. 

"I  see  that  you  are  from  the  University  of  California  ?" 
he  said,  following  his  courier  to  the  door  that  opened 
on  a  long  covered  inner  porch.  Another  lawn  of  al 
falfa  rested  the  eyes  weary  of  dust  and  sand.  A  few 
willows  and  castor-beans  of  mushroom  habit  shut  out 
the  desert,  denied  the  lean  naked  presence  just  beyond 
the  leafy  screen.  Rickard  nodded  at  the  pin  of  gold 
and  blue  enamel. 


54  THE   RIVER 

"Out  for  a  year/'  glowed  the  lad.  "Dad  wanted  me 
to  get  some  real  stuff  in  my  head.  He  said  the  Colo 
rado  would  give  me  more  lessons — more  real  knowl 
edge  in  a  year  than  I'd  get  in  six  at  college.  I  kicked 
up  an  awful  row — " 

The  older  man  smiled.  "Of  course.  You  didn't  want 
to  leave  your  class." 

"You're  a  college  man,  then."  Rickard  uncovered 
his  "frat"  pin  under  his  vest  lapel.  "Father  wasn't.  He 
couldn't  understand.  It  was  tough." 

"You  don't  want  to  go  back  now?" 

The  boy  made  a  wry  face.  "He  expects  me  to  go 
back  in  August.  Says  I  must.  Think  I'd  leave  the 
desert  if  the  Colorado  goes  on  another  rampage?  Miss 
the  chance  of  a  lifetime?  I'll  make  him  see  it.  If  I 
don't,  I'll  buck,  that's  all." 

"You  did  not  tell  me  your  name,"  was  suggested. 

"MacLean,  George  MacLean,"  said  the  young  man 
rather  consciously.  It  was  a  good  deal  to  live  up  to. 
He  always  felt  the  appraisement  which  followed  that 
admission.  George  MacLean,  elder,  was  known  among 
the  railroad  circles  to  be  a  man  of  iron,  one  of  the  strong 
est  of  the  heads  of  the  Overland  Pacific  system.  He 
was  not  the  sort  of  man  a  son  could  speak  lightly  of 
disobeying. 

"Of  course,  every  one  calls  me  Junior." 

"I  guess  you'll  go  back  if  he  wants  you  to,"  smiled 
Rickard. 

"Oh,  but  what  a  rotten  trick  it  would  be!"  exclaimed 
the  son  of  the  man  of  iron.  "To  throw  me  out  of  col 
lege — I  was  daffy  to  finish  with  my  class,  and  to  get  me 
here,  to  get  me  interested — and  then  after  I've  lost  my 
place  to  pull  me  back.  Why,  there  are  things  happen- 


A    GAME    OF    CHECKERS  55 

ing  every  day  that  are  a  liberal  education.  They  are 
only  just  beginning  to  understand  what  they  are  buck 
ing  up  against.  The  Colorado's  an  unknown  quantity, 
even  old  engineers  are  right  up  against  it.  There  are 
new  problems  coming  up  every  day.  The  Indians  call 
her  a  yellow  dragon,  but  she's  a  tricky  woman,  she's 
an  eel ;  she's  giving  us  sums  to  break  our  teeth  on." 

The  man  smiled  at  the  eager  mongrel  imagery. 

"I'll  not  go,"  said  MacLean. 

"Fathers  seem  wise  the  year  after  where  they  seem 
blind  the  year  before!" 

"I'll  not  go!"  the  boy  blustered.  Rickard  suspected 
that  he  was  bolstering  up  his  courage. 

"Who  has  the  next  room?" 

"Used  to  be  the  general  manager's.  Ogilvie  uses  it 
now." 

"And  who  did  you  say  was  Ogilvie?"  They  turned 
back  into  the  room. 

"You  can  go  in.  He's  not  here.  He  is  the  new  audi- 
tor,  an  expert  accountant  from  Los  Angeles.  Put  in 
by  the  O.  P.  when  it  assumed  control  last  year.  He 
used  to  come  down  once  a  month.  After  Hardin  went 
out,  he  came  down  to  stay." 

"Whose  say-so?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  accounts  were  rotten,  that's  no 
office  secret.  The  world  knows  that.  Hardin  is  blamed 
for  it.  It  isn't  fair.  Look  at  Sather's  stone  palace 
in  Los  Angeles.  Look  at  Hardin's  tent,  his  shabby 
clothes." 

"I'd  like  to  meet  Ogilvie/'  observed  the  general  man 
ager. 

"Oh,  he's  not  much  to  meet.  A  pale  white-livered 
vegetarian,  a  theosophist.  You've  seen  'em.  Los  An- 


56  THE   RIVER 

geles  is  full  of  'em.  He  was  here  when  Hardin  was 
fired.  You  could  see  him  see  his  opportunity.  His 
chest  swelled  up.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  tasted  meat 
for  the  first  time.  He  thought  that  he  could  woozle 
into  the  empty  place!  He  went  back  to  Los  Angeles, 
convinced  them  that  the  auditor  should  be  here,  protect 
the  company's  interests.  It  sounded  mysterious,  sleuth- 
like,  as  if  he  had  discovered  something,  so  they  let  him 
bring  the  books  down  here.  He  is  supposed  to  be  fer 
reting.  But  he's  'woozling.'  He  used  to  be  in  the 
outer  office.  Said  the  noise  made  his  head  ache,  so  he 
moved  in  here.  All  the  committee  meetings  are  held 
here,  and  occasionally  the  directors'  meetings.  Water 
companies',  too.  Ogilvie's  taking  notes — wants  to  be 
the  next  general  manager,  it  sticks  out  all  over  him." 

"What's  the  derivation  of  woozle?"  this  with  deep 
gravity. 

"Wait  till  you  see  Ogilvie!"  laughed  his  entertainer. 
Then  as  an  afterthought:  "This  is  all  public  gossip. 
He's  fair  game." 

The  door  opened  behind  them,  and  Rickard  saw  the 
man  whose  description  had  been  so  deftly  knocked  off. 
He  recognized  the  type  seen  so  frequently  in  Southern 
California  towns,  the  pale  damaged  exile  whose  chance 
of  reprieve  is  conditioned  by  stern  rules  of  diet  and  so 
briety.  It  was  the  temperament  which  must  perforce 
translate  a  personal  necessity  into  a  religious  dogma. 

"This  gentleman's  just, — is  just  looking  around," 
stammered  MacLean,  blundering,  confused. 

The  vegetarian  nodded,  taking  off  his  felt  sombrero 
and  putting  it  on  a  chair  with  care. 

The  stranger  observed  that  he  had  pleasant  quarters. 

Ogilvie  said  that  they  answered  very  well. 


A   GAME   OF    CHECKERS  57 

"Are  there  other  offices  than  those  I  have  seen?" 
Rickard  demanded  of  MacLean. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Dormitories.  We  sleep  here, 
a  lot  of  us  when  we  are  not  on  duty.  At  least,  we  don't 
sleep  inside,  unless  it  blows  us  in.  We  sleep  out  there." 
He  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  lawn.  "We  dress  and 
'gas'  in  there."  His  hand  waved  toward  the  rooms  be 
yond. 

By  this  time  it  was  apparent  that  no  one,  save  Hardin, 
knew  of  his  coming.  He  was  ahead  of  Marshall's  let 
ters.  He  did  not  like  the  flavor  of  his  entrance. 

"What  provision  is  being  made  for  a  new  general 
manager?" 

The  question,  aimed  carelessly,  hit  the  auditor. 

"They  are  not  talking  of  filling  the  position  just  yet," 
he  responded.  "There  is  no  need,  at  present.  The  work 
is  going  along  nicely,  better  I  might  say,  adjusted  as  it 
now  is,  than  it  did  before." 

"I  heard  that  they  had  sent  a  man  from  the  Tucson 
office  to  represent  Mr.  Marshall." 

"Did  you  hear  his  name?"  stammered  Ogilvie. 

"Rickard." 

The  auditor  recovered  himself.  "I  would  have  heard 
of  it,  were  it  true.  I  am  in  close  touch  with  the  Los 
Angeles  office." 

"It  is  true." 

"How  do  you  know?"  Ogilvie's  dismay  was  too  sud 
den  ;  the  flabby  facial  muscles  betrayed  him. 

"I'm  Rickard."  The  new  general  manager  took  the 
swivel  chair  behind  the  flat-top  desk.  "Sit  down.  I'd 
like  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,"  Ogilvie's  bluff  was  as  ane 
mic  as  his  crushed  appearance.  "I — I  am  busy  this 


58  THE   RIVER 

morning.  Might  I — trouble  you — for  a  few  minutes? 
My  papers  are  in  this  desk." 

Rickard  now  knew  his  man  to  the  shallow  depths 
of  his  white-corpuscled  soul.  "If  I  won't  be  in  your 
way,  I'll  hang  around  here.  I've  the  day  to  kill." 

His  sarcasm  was  lost  in  transit.  Ogilvie  said  that 
Mr.  Rickard  would  not  be  in  his  way.  He  would  move 
his  papers  into  the  next  room  to-morrow. 

The  engineer  moved  to  the  French  windows  that 
opened  on  the  alfalfa  lawn.  A  vigorous  growth  of 
willows  marked  the  course  of  New  River  which  had  cut 
so  perilously  near  the  towns.  A  letter,  "b,"  picked  out 
in  quick  river  vegetation  told  the  story  of  the  flood. 
The  old  channel,  there  it  was;  the  curved  arm  of  the 
"b,"  one  could  tell  that  by  the  tall  willows,  had  been 
too  tortuous,  too  slow  for  those  sweeping  waters.  The 
flow  had  divided,  cutting  the  stem  of  the  letter,  carry 
ing  the  flood  waters  swifter  down-grade.  The  flow  had 
divided, — hm!  divided  perhaps  the  danger,  too!  An 
idea  in  that !  He  would  see  that  better  from  the  water- 
tower  he'd  spied  at  entering.  Another  flood,  and  a 
gamble  whether  Mexicali  or  Calexico  would  get  the 
worst  of  it.  Unless  one  was  ready.  A  levee — west  of 
the  American  town! 

"Excuse  me,  sir — do  you  need  me?"  He  turned  back 
into  the  room.  He  could  see  that  MacLean  was  aching 
to  get  out  of  the  room.  Ogilvie  had  visibly  withered. 
A  blight  seemed  to  fall  on  him  as  his  white  blue-veined 
fingers  made  a  bluff  among  his  papers. 

"Thank  you."  Rickard  nodded  at  MacLean,  who 
burst  into  the  outer  office. 

"It's  the  new  general  manager  from  Tucson — Rick- 
ard's  his  name."  His  whisper  ran  around  the  walls  of 


ft  GAME   OF   CHECKERS  59 

the  room  where  other  arrivals  were  tilting  their  chairs. 
"The  new  general  manager!  Ogilvie  woozled  for  noth 
ing.  You  should  have  seen  his  face  I" 

"Did  any  one  know  that  he  was  coming?"  Silent,  the 
tanned  giant,  spoke. 

"That's  Marshall  all  over,"  said  Wooster,  bright-eyed 
and  wiry,  removing  his  pipe.  "He  likes  to  move  in  a 
mysterious  way  his  wonders  to  perform.  (Used  to  sing 
that  when  I  was  a  kid!)  No  announcement.  Simply: 
'Enter  Rickard.' " 

"More  like  this,"  said  Silent.  "Exit  Hardin.  Enter 
Ogilvie.  Enter  Rickard." 

"And  exit  Ogilvie,"  cried  MacLean. 

"It's  a — damned  shame,"  burst  out  Wooster.  No  one 
asked  him  what  he  meant.  Every  man  in  the  room  was 
thinking  of  Hardin  whose  shadow  this  reclamation 
work  was. 

"What's  Rickard  doing?"  asked  the  infantile  Hercu 
les  at  the  checker-board.     The  force  called  him  Pete,    / 
which  was  a  short  cut  to  Frederick  Augustus  Bodefeldt.  / 

"Taking  Ogilvie's  measure,"  this  from  MacLean. 

"Then  he's  doing  something  else  by  this  time.  That 
wouldn't  take  him  five  minutes  unless  he's  a  gull," 
snapped  Wooster,  who  hated  Ogilvie  as  a  rat  does  a 
snake. 

The  door  opened  and  Rickard  came  in.  Almost  simul 
taneously  the  outer  door  opened  to  admit  Hardin.  Who 
would  introduce  the  new  general  manager  to  the  dis 
missed  one?  The  thought  flashed  from  MacLean  to 
Silent,  to  the  telegraph  operator.  Bodefeldt  doubled 
over  the  checker-board,  pretending  not  to  see  them.  Con 
fusion,  embarrassment  was  on  every  face.  Nobody 
spoke.  Hardin  was  coming  closer. 


60  THE   RIVER 

"Hello,  Hardin." 

"Hello,  Rickard." 

It  appeared  friendly  enough  to  the  surprised  office. 
Both  men  were  glad  that  it  was  over. 

"Nice  offices,''  remarked  Hardin,  his  legs  outspread, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Ogilvie  is  satisfied  with  them."  The  men  rather 
overdid  the  laugh. 

"Finding  the  dust  pretty  tough?"  inquired  Hardin. 

"I  spent  a  month  in  San  Francisco  last  summer !"  was 
the  rejoinder.  "This  is  a  haven,  though,  from  the  street. 
Thought  I'd  loaf  for  to-day."  Was  Hardin  game  to 
do  the  right  thing,  introduce  him  as  the  new  chief  to 
his  subordinates?  Nothing,  it  developed,  was  further 
from  his  intention.  Hardin,  his  legs  outstretched,  kept 
before  his  face  the  bland  impenetrable  smile  of  the 
oriental.  It  was  clearly  not  Rickard's  move.  The 
checker  players  fidgeted.  Rickard's  silence  was  inter 
rogative.  Hardin  still  smiled. 

The  outer  door  opened. 

The  newcomer,  evidently  a  favorite,  walked  into  a 
noisy  welcome,  the  "boys' "  embarrassment  overdoing  it. 
He  was  of  middle  height,  slender ;  a  Mexican  with 
Castilian  ancestry  written  in  his  high-bred  features,  his 
grace  and  his  straight  dark  hair. 

"Good  morning,  Estrada,"  said  Hardin  with  the 
same  meaningless  smile. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen."  The  Mexican's  greet 
ing  paused  at  Rickard. 

"Mr.  Estrada,  Mr.  Rickard." 

Every  one  in  the  office  saw  Hardin  snub  his  other  op 
portunity.  He  had  betrayed  to  every  one  his  deep  hurt, 


A   GAME   OF    CHECKERS  61 

his  raw  wound.  When  he  had  stepped  down,  under 
cover  of  a  resignation,  he  had  saved  his  face  by  telling 
every  one  that  a  rupture  with  Maitland,  one  of  the  direc 
tors  of  the  reorganized  company,  had  made  it  impossible 
for  them  to  serve  together,  and  that  Maitland's  wealth 
and  importance  to  the  company  demanded  his  own  sac 
rifice.  Two  months  before  Rickard's  appearance,  Mait 
land  had  been  discovered  dead  in  his  bath  in  a  Los  An 
geles  hotel.  Though  no  one  had  been  witless  enough 
to  speak  of  their  hope  to  Hardin,  he  knew  that  all  his 
force  was  daily  expecting  his  reinstatement.  Rickard's 
entrance  was  another  stab  to  their  chief. 

"The  son  of  the  general?"  The  new  manager  held 
out  his  hand.  "General  Estrada,  friend  of  Mexican 
liberty,  founder  of  steamship  companies  and  father  of 
the  Imperial  Valley?" 

"That  makes  me  a  brother  of  the  valley,"  Estrada's 
smile  was  sensitive  and  sweet. 

"He  did  good  work  in  his  day,"  added  Rickard  rather 
stupidly. 

Estrada  looked  at  Hardin,  hesitated,  then  passed  on  to 
the  checker  players,  and  stood  behind  MacLean. 

"I  saw  your  father  in  Los  Angeles." 

MacLean's  eager  face  flushed.  "Did  you  speak  to 
him  ?  Did  you  tell  him  how  hard  it  would  be  for  me  to 
go  back?" 

"I  did  what  I  could.  But  it  was  a  busy  time.  There 
were  several  meetings  of  the  board.  At  the  last  two, 
he  was  present." 

"You  mean?" 

"He  was  chosen  to  fill  the  vacancy  made  by  Mait 
land's  death." 


62  THE   RIVER 

MacLean's  eyes  wavered  toward  Hardin,  whose  non 
chalance  had  not  faltered.  Had  he  not  heard,  or  did 
he  know,  already? 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  meeting,  a  conference,  to-morrow 
morning."  Rickard  was  speaking.  "Mr.  Hardin,  will 
you  set  the  hour  at  your  convenience?" 

Because  it  was  so  kindly  done,  Hardin  showed  his 
first  resentment.  "It  will  not  be  possible  for  me  to  be 
there.  I'm  going  to  Los  Angeles  in  the  morning."  He 
turned  and  left  the  office,  Estrada  following  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hardin,  you  mustn't  take  it  that  way,"  he 
expostulated,  concern  in  each  sensitive  feature. 

"I'll  take  orders  from  him,  but  he  gave  me  none," 
growled  Hardin.  "It's  not  what  you  think.  I'm  not 
sore.  But  I  don't  like  him.  He's  a  fancy  dude.  He's 
not  the  man  for  this  job." 

"Then  you  knew  him  before?"  It  was  a  surprise  to 
Estrada. 

"At  college.  He  was  my — er,  instructor.  Marshall 
found  him  in  the  class  room.  A  theory-slinger." 

Estrada's  thoughtful  glance  rested  on  the  angry  face. 
Was  this  genuine,  or  did  not  Hardin  know  of  the  years 
Rickard  had  served  on  the  road ;  of  the  job  in  the  heat- 
baked  barrancas  of  Mexico  where  Marshall  had  "found" 
him?  But  he  would  not  try  again  to  persuade  Hardin 
to  give  up  his  trip  to  Los  Angeles.  It  might  be  better, 
after  all,  for  the  new  manager  to  take  charge  with  his 
predecessor  out  of  the  way. 

"MacLean's  coming  down  to-night,"  he  threw  out, 
still  watching  Hardin's  face.  "With  Babcock." 

"I  won't  be  missed."  Hardin's  mouth  was  bitter. 
"Estrada,  if  I  had  the  sense  of  a  goat,  I'd  sell  out,  sell 
my  stock  to  MacLean,  and  quit.  What's  in  all  this,  for 


A   GAME   OF    CHECKERS  63 

me?  Does  any  one  doubt  my  reason  for  staying?  It 
would  be  like  leaving  a  sinking  ship,  like  deserting  the 
passengers  and  crew  one  had  brought  on  board.  God! 
I'd  like  to  go!  But  how  can  I?  I've  got  hold  of  the 
tail  of  the  bear,  and  I  can't  let  go !" 

"No  one  doubts  you — "  began  Estrada.  Hardin 
turned  away,  with  an  ugly  oath.  The  Mexican  stood 
watching  his  stumbling  anger.  "Poor  Hardin!" 

In  the  office,  Rickard  was  speaking  to  MacLean,  whom 
he  had  drawn  to  one  side,  out  of  ear-shot  of  the  checker 
players. 

"I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me,  not  at  all  agree 
able  !"  His  tone  implied  that  the  boy  was  not  given  the 
chance  to  beg  off.  "What  time  does  the  train  pull  out 
in  the  morning?" 

"Six-fifteen." 

"I'll  have  a  letter  for  you,  at  the  hotel  at  six.  Be  on 
time.  I  want  to  catch  Hardin  before  he  leaves  for  Los 
Angeles.  If  he's  really  going.  I'll  give  him  to-day  to 
think  it  over.  But  he  can't  disregard  an  order  as  he  did 
my  invitation.  I  didn't  want  to  rub  it  in  before  the  men." 

MacLean  stared;  then  said  that  he  thought  he  was 
not  likely  to ! 

Rickard  left  the  office  in  time  to  see  Hardin  shutting 
the  outer  gate  behind  him.  His  exit  released  a  chorus 
of  indignant  voices. 

"An  outrage!" 

"A  damned  shame!"    This  from  Wooster. 

"Hardin's  luck!" 

On  the  other  side  of  the  door,  Rickard  deliberated. 
The  hotel  and  its  curious  loungers,  or  his  new  office, 
where  Ogilvie  was  making  a  great  show  of  occupation? 
He  had  not  seen  Estrada.  He  was  making  a  sudden 


64  THE   RIVER 

dive  for  his  hotel,  when  the  gentle  voice  of  the  Mexican 
hailed  him. 

"Will  you  come  to  my  car?  It's  on  the  siding1  right 
here.  We  can  have  a  little  lunch,  and  then  look  over 
some  maps  together.  I  have  some  pictures  of  the  river 
and  the  gate.  They  may  be  new  to  you." 

Rickard  spent  the  afternoon  in  the  car.  The  twin 
towns  did  not  seem  so  hostile.  He  thought  he  might 
like  the  Mexican. 

Estrada  was  earning  his  father's  mantle.  He  was  the 
superintendent  of  the  road  which  the  Overland  Pacific 
was  building  between  the  twin  towns  and  the  Crossing; 
a  director  of  the  Desert  Reclamation  Company;  and  the 
head  of  a  small  subsidiary  company  which  had  been  cre 
ated  to  protect  rights  and  keep  harmonious  relation  with 
the  sister  country.  Rickard  found  him  full  of  meat,  and 
heard,  for  the  first  time  consecutively,  the  story  of  the 
rakish  river.  Particularly  interesting  to  him  was  the 
relation  of  Hardin  to  the  company. 

"He  has  the  bad  luck,  that  man!"  exclaimed  Es 
trada's  soft  tuneful  voice.  "Everything  is  in  his  hands, 
capital  is  promised,  and  he  goes  to  New  York  to  have 
the  papers  drawn  up.  The  day  he  gets  there,  the  Maine 
is  destroyed.  Of  course,  capital  is  shy.  He's  had  the 
devil's  own  luck  with  men :  Gifford,  honest,  but  mulish ; 
Sather,  mulish  and  not  honest — oh,  there's  a  string  of 
them.  Once,  he  went  to  Hermosillo  to  get  an  option  on 
my  father's  lands.  They  were  already  covered  by  an 
option  held  by  some  men  in  Scotland.  Another  man 
would  have  waited  for  the  three  months  to  pass.  Not 
Hardin.  He  went  to  Scotland,  thought  he'd  interest 
those  men  with  his  maps  and  papers.  He  owned  all  the 
data,  then.  He'd  made  the  survey." 


A    GAME    OF    CHECKERS  65 

Estrada  repeated  the  story  Brandon  and  Marshall  had 
told,  with  little  discrepancy.  A  friendly  refrain  followed 
the  narrative.  "He  has  the  bad  luck,  that  man !" 

"And  the  Scotched  option?"  reminded  Rickard,  smil 
ing  at  his  own  poor  joke. 

"It  was  just  that.  A  case  of  Hardin  luck  again.  He 
stopped  off  in  London  to  interest  some  capital  there; 
following  up  a  lead  developed  on  the  steamer.  He  was 
never  a  man  to  neglect  a  chance.  Nothing  came  of  it, 
though,  and  when  he  reached  Glasgow,  he  found  his  man 
had  died  two  days  before.  Or  been  killed,  I've  forgotten 
which.  Three  times  Hardin's  crossed  the  ocean  trying 
to  corner  the  opportunity  he  thought  he  had  found.  It 
isn't  laziness,  is  his  trouble.  It's  just  infernal  luck." 

"Or  over-astuteness,  or  procrastination,"  criticized  his 
listener  to  himself.  He  knew  now  what  it  was  that  had 
so  changed  Hardin.  A  man  can  not  travel,  even  though 
he  be  hounding  down  a  quick  scent,  without  meeting 
strong  influences.  He  had  been  thrown  with  hard  men, 
strong  men.  It  was  an  inevitable  chiseling ;  not  a  miracle. 

"I  want  to  hear  more  of  this  some  day.  But  this  map. 
I  don't  understand  what  you  told  me  of  this  by-pass,  Mr. 
Estrada." 

Their  heads  were  still  bending  over  Estrada's  rough 
work-bench  when  the  Japanese  cook  announced  that  din 
ner  was  waiting  in  the  adjoining  car.  MacLean  and 
Bodefeldt  and  several  young  engineers  joined  them. 

It  had  been,  outwardly,  a  wasted  day.  Rickard  had 
lounged,  socially  and  physically.  But  before  he  turned 
in  that  night,  he  had  learned  the  names  and  dispositions 
of  his  force ;  and  some  of  their  prejudices.  Nothing,  he 
summed  up,  could  be  guessed  from  the  gentleness  of  the 
Mexican's  manner;  Wooster's  antagonism  was  open 


66  THE   RIVER 

and  snappish.     Silent  was  to  be  watched;  and  Hardin 
had  already  shown  his  hand. 

The  river,  as  he  thought  of  it,  appeared  the  least  for 
midable  of  his  opponents.  He  was  imaging  it  as  a  high- 
spirited  horse,  maddened  by  the  fumbling  of  its  would-be 
captors.  His  task  it  was  to  lasso  the  proud  stallion,  lead 
it  in  bridled  to  the  sterile  land.  No  wonder  Hardin  was 
sore;  his  noose  had  slipped  off  one  time  too  many! 
Hardin's  luck! 


CHAPTER  VI 

RED    TAPE 


/ 
./ 


AT  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  Hardin,  entering  the 
office,  again  the  general/fnanager's,  found  there  be 
fore  him,  George  MacLeaif;  the  new  director,  and  Percy 
Babcock,  the  treasurer,  who  had  been  put  in  by  the  Over 
land  Pacific  when  the  old  company  was  reorganized. 
They  had  just  come  in  from  Los  Angeles,  the  trip  made 
in  MacLean's  private  car. 

"Where's  Estrada?"  inquired  Hardin  of  Ogilvie,  who 
was  making  a  great  show  of  industry  at  the  desk  in  the 
center  of  the  room. 

Before  Ogilvie  could  open  his  deliberate  lips,  Hardin's 
question  was  answered  by  Babcock,  a  thin  nervous  man, 
strung  on  live  wires.  "Not  here  yet." 

Hardin  stood  in  his  characteristic  attitude,  legs  out 
stretched,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "Rickard?" 

"Coming  back,  Ogilvie  says.  He  went  out  a  few  min 
utes  ago." 

"Just  like  Marshall,  that."  Hardin  moved  over  to  the 
leather  lounge  where  MacLean  was  sitting.  Neither  man 
answered  him.  It  was  Hardin's  method  of  acknowledg 
ing  the  situation. 

Rickard  entered  a  few  minutes  later,  Estrada  behind 
him.  Ogilvie  followed  Rickard  to  his  desk. 

"Well?"  inquired  the  new  manager. 

67 


68  THE   RIVER 

Ogilvie  explained  lengthily  that  he  had  the  minutes  of 
the  last  meeting. 

"Leave  them  here."  Rickard  waved  him  toward  Es 
trada,  who  held  out  his  hand  for  the  papers. 

Ogilvie's  grasp  did  not  relax.  He  stammered :  "There 
is  no  secretary.  I've  been  taking  the  minutes — " 

"Thank  you.  Mr.  Estrada  will  read  them.  We  do  not 
need  you,  Mr.  Ogilvie." 

Ogilvie  stood,  turning  his  expressionless  eyes  from  one 
director  to  the  other  as  if  expecting  that  order  to  be 
countermanded.  Babcock  and  MacLean  appeared  to  be 
looking  at  something  outside  through  the  vine-framed 
windows.  An  ugly  smile  disfigured  Hardin's  mouth. 

Rickard  spoke  again.  "Mr.  Estrada!  We  won't  de 
tain  you  any  longer,  Mr.  Ogilvie." 

Reluctantly,  the  accountant  relinquished  the  papers. 
His  retreating  coat  tails  looked  ludicrously  whipped,  but 
no  one  laughed.  Hardin's  scowl  deepened. 

"Showing  his  power,"  he  thought.  "He's  going  to  call 
for  a  new  pack." 

Estrada  pushed  the  minutes  through  with  but  a  few 
unimportant  interruptions.  He  was  sitting  at  the  same 
desk  with  Rickard.  Hardin,  sensitive  and  sullen,  thought 
he  saw  the  meeting  managed  between  .them.  "It's  all 
slated,"  ran  his  angry  blood.  "The  meeting's  a  farce. 
It  was  all  fixed  in  Los  Angeles,  or  in  Marshall's  office." 
He  whipped  himself  into  rebellion.  He  was  no  baby. 
He  knew  about  these  matters  better  than  these  strangers, 
this  fancy  dude !  He'd  show  them ! 

It  took  their  silent  cooperation  to  hold  him  down.  It 
became  more  apparent  to  him  that  they  were  all  pitted 
against  him.  He  was  being  pressed  against  the  wall. 

Several  times  he  attempted  to  bring  the  tangled  affairs 


RED    TAPE  69 

of  the  water  companies  before  the  directors.     Rickard 
would  not  discuss  the  water  companies. 

"Because  he's  not  posted!  He's  beginning  to  see 
what  he's  up  against,"  ran  Hardin's  stormy  thoughts. 
He  felt  Rickard's  hand  in  this,  although  it  was  Estrada, 
apparently,  who  shelved  the  mystifications  of  the  uneasy 
companies,  their  rights,  their  dissatisfactions  and  their 
lawsuits.  Babcock  seconded  the  Mexican's  motion  to 
discuss  those  issues  at  the  next  meeting.  "It  is  a  put-up 
job,"  sulked  Tom  Hardin. 

He  was  on  his  feet  the  next  minute  with  a  motion  to 
complete  the  Hardin  head-gate.  Violently  he  declaimed 
to  Babcock  and  MacLean  his  wrongs,  the  injustice  that  A  ^ 
had  been  done  him.  Marshall  had  let  that  fellow  l\£ait-  XOA.i*%t 
land  convince  him  that  the  gate  was  not  practicable ;  had 
it  not  been  for  him,  the  gate  would  be  in  place  now ;  all 
this  time  and  money  saved.  And  the  Maitland  dam, 
built  instead!  Where  was  it?  Where  was  the  money, 
the  time,  put  in  that  little  toy?  Sickening!  His  face 
purpled  over  the  memory.  Why  was  he  allowed  to  be 
gin  again  with  the  gate?  "Answer  me  that.  Why  was 
I  allowed  to  begin  again  ?  It's  all  child's  play,  that's  what 
it  is.  And  when  I  am  in  it  again,  up  to  my  neck,  he  pulls 
me  off." 

This  was  the  real  Hardin,  the  uncouth,  overaged  Law 
rence  student!  The  new  manner  was  just  a  veneer. 
Rickard  had  been  expecting  it  to  wear  thin. 

"Why  did  we  begin  it,  I  ask  you?"  repeated  Hardin, 
his  face  flushed  and  eager.  "To  make  laughing-stocks  of 
ourselves  down  here  ?  That's  a  costly  game  for  the  O.  P. 
to  play.  What  does  Marshall  know  about  conditions, 
sitting  in  his  office,  and  looking  at  maps,  and  reading  let 
ters  and  reports  from  his  spies?  I'll  give  you  the  an- 


70  THE   RIVER 

swer:  he  wants  the  glory  himself.  Why  did  he  tell  me 
that  he  thought  my  gate  would  go,  and  then  start  an 
other  ten  times  as  costly  ?  He  wants  all  the  credit.  He'd 
like  to  see  my  gate  a  failure.  Why  does  he  push  the 
concrete  gate  ahead,  and  hold  up  mine  every  few  days  ?" 

"I  think,"  interjected  Rickard,  "that  we  all  agree  with 
Mr.  Marshall,  Mr.  Hardin,  that  a  wooden  head-gate  on 
silt  foundation  could  never  be  more  than  a  makeshift. 
I  understood  that  the  first  day  he  visited  the  river  with 
you  he  had  the  idea  to  put  the  ultimate  gate,  the  gate 
which  would  control  the  water  supply  of  the  valley,  up 
at  the  Crossing  on  rock  foundation.  Mr.  Marshall  does 
not  expect  to  finish  that  in  time  to  be  of  first  use.  He 
hopes  the  wooden  gate  will  solve  the  immediate  problem. 
It  was  a  case  of  any  port  in  a  storm.  He  has  asked  me 
to  report  my  opinion." 

"Why  doesn't  he  give  me  a  chance  to  go  ahead  then?" 
growled  the  deposed  manager.  "Instead  of  letting  the 
intake  widen  until  it  will  be  an  impossibility  to  confine 
the  river  there  at  all  ?" 

"So  you  do  think  that  it  will  be  an  impossibility  to 
complete  the  gate  as  planned  ?" 

Hardin  had  run  too  fast.  "I  didn't  mean  that,"  he 
stammered.  "I  mean  it  will  be  difficult  if  we  are  delayed 
much  longer." 

"You  are  in  charge  of  the  construction  of  that  gate?" 

Hardin  said  he  was.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
floods — 

"Have  you  the  force  to  re-begin  work  at  once?"  de 
manded  Rickard. 

"I  had  it,"  evaded  Hardin.  "I  had  everything  ready 
to  go  on — men,  material — when  we  stopped  the  last 
time." 


RED    TAPE  71 

"And  you  haven't  it  now?" 

Hardin  hated  to  the  soul  of  him  to  have  to  acknowl 
edge  that  he  had  not ;  he  shrank  from  uncovering  a  single 
obstacle  that  stood  between  his  gate  and  completion. 
He  tried  to  hedge.  MacLean,  a  big  man  whose  iron 
wheels  moved  slowly,  was  weighing  the  caliber  of  the 
two  opposing  men.  Babcock,  wiry,  alert,  embarrassed 
Hardin  with  his  challenging  stare. 

"Answer  my  question,  please." 

"I  should  have  to  assemble  them  again,"  admitted 
Hardin  sulkily. 

Rickard  consulted  his  note-book.  "I  think  we've  cov 
ered  everything.  Now,  I  want  to  propose  the  laying  of 
a  spur-track  from  Hamlin's  Junction  to  the  Heading." 
His  manner  cleared  the  stage  of  supernumeraries;  this 
was  the  climax.  Hardin  looked  ready  to  spring. 

"And  in  connection  with  that,  the  development  of  a 
quarry  in  the  granite  hills  back  of  Hamlin's,"  continued 
Rickard,  not  looking  at  Hardin. 

Instantly  Hardin  was  on  his  feet.  His  fist  thundered 
on  the  table.  "I  shall  oppose  that,"  he  flared.  "It  is  ab 
solutely  unnecessary.  We  can't  afford  it.  Do  you  know 
what  that  will  cost,  gentlemen  ?" 

"One  hundred  thousand  dollars !"  Rickard  interrupted 
him.  "I  want  an  appropriation  this  morning  for  that 
amount.  It  is,  in  my  opinion,  absolutely  necessary  if  we 
are  to  save  the  valley.  We  can  not  afford  not  to  do  it, 
Mr.  Hardin!" 

Hardin  glared  at  the  other  men  for  support ;  he  found 
MacLean's  face  a  blank  wall;  Estrada  looked  uncom 
fortable.  Babcock  had  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  sound 
of  the  desired  appropriation ;  his  head  on  one  side,  he 
looked  like  an  inquisitive  terrier. 


72  THE   RIVER 

Hardin  spread  out  his  hands  in  helpless  desperation. 
"You'll  ruin  us,"  he  said.  "It's  your  money,  the  O.  P/s, 
but  you're  lending  it,  not  giving  it  to  us.  You  are  going 
to  swamp  the  Desert  Reclamation  Company.  We  can't 
throw  funds  away  like  that/'  One  hundred  thousand 
dollars !  Why,  he  could  have  stopped  the  river  any  time 
if  he  had  had  that  sum;  once  a  paltry  thousand  would 
have  saved  them —  "I  didn't  ask  the  O.  P.  to  come  in 
and  ruin  us,  but  to  stop  the  river;  not  to  throw  money 
away  in  hog-wild  fashion."  He  was  stammering  inar 
ticulately.  "There's  no  need  of  a  spur-track  if  you  rush 
my  gate  through." 

"///'  Rickard  nodded.  "Granted.  If  we  can  rush  it 
through.  But  suppose  it  fails?  Marshall  said  the  rail 
road  would  stand  for  no  contingencies.  The  interests 
at  stake  are  too  vital — " 

"Interests !"  cried  Tom  Hardin.  "What  do  you  know 
of  the  interest  at  stake  ?  You  or  your  railroad  ?  Coming 
in  at  the  eleventh  hour,  what  can  you  know?  Did  you 
promise  safety  to  thousands  of  families  if  they  made 
their  homes  in  this  valley?  Are  you  responsible?  Did 
you  get  up  this  company,  induce  your  friends  to  put  their 
money  in  it,  promise  to  see  them  through?  What  do 
you  know  of  the  interests  at  stake?  You  want  to  put 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars  into  a  frill.  God,  do  you 
know  what  that  means  to  my  company?  It  means 
ruin — "  Estrada  pulled  him  down  in  his  seat. 

Rickard  explained  to  the  directors  the  necessity  in  his 
opinion  of  the  spur-track  and  the  quarry.  Rock  in  great 
quantities  would  be  needed;  cars  must  be  rushed  in  to 
the  break.  He  urged  the  importance  of  clenching  the 
issue.  "If  it's  not  won  this  time,  it's  a  lost  cause,"  he 


RED   TAPE 


73 


maintained.  "If  it  cuts  a  deeper  gorge,  the  Imperial 
Valley  is  a  chimera;  so  is  Laguna  Dam." 

The  other  men  were  drawn  into  the  argument.  Bab- 
cock  leaned  toward  Hardin's  conservatism.  MacLean 
was  judicial.  Estrada  upheld  Rickard.  The  spur-track, 
in  his  opinion,  was  essential  to  success.  Hardin  could 
see  the  meeting  managed  between  the  newcomer  and  the 
Mexican,  and  his  anger  impotently  raged.  His  temper 
made  him  incoherent.  He  could  see  Rickard,  cool  and 
impersonal,  adding  to  his  points,  and  MacLean  slowly 
won  to  the  stronger  side.  Hardin,  on  his  feet  again,  was 
sputtering  helplessly  at  Babcock,  when  Rickard  called 
for  a  vote.  The  appropriation  was  carried.  Hardin's 
face  was  swollen  with  rage. 

Rickard  then  called  for  a  report  on  the  clam-shell 
dredge  being  rushed  at  Yuma.  Where  was  the  machin 
ery  ?  Was  it  not  to  have  been  finished  in  February  ? 

Hardin  said  that  the  machinery  was  ready,  waiting  in 
San  Francisco.  The  hull  of  the  dredge  could  not  be  fin 
ished  for  a  couple  of  months  at  least. 

"Why  not  get  the  machinery  here  ?  What's  the  use  of 
taking  chances?"  demanded  Rickard. 

Hardin  felt  the  personal  implication.  He  was  on  his 
feet  in  a  second.  "There  are  no  chances."  He  looked  at 
MacLean.  "The  machinery's  done.  It's  no  use  getting 
it  here  until  we're  ready." 

"There  are  always  chances,"  interrupted  his  opponent 
coolly.  "We  are  going  to  take  none.  I  want  Mr.  Hardin, 
gentlemen,  appointed  a  committee  of  one  to  see  that  the 
machinery  is  delivered  at  once,  and  the  dredge  rushed. 
What's  the  date?" 

"April  eleventh,"  clicked  the  nickel-in-the-slot-machine- 


74  THE   RIVER 

Babcock  again.  Had  any  one  asked  the  time,  his  answer 
as  swift  without  consultation  would  have  been  as  exact. 
He  lived  with  his  watch  under  his  eye.  Every  few  min 
utes  he  assured  himself  as  to  his  gain  on  eternity. 

"Get  it  in  before  the  heavy  summer  traffic  begins," 
instructed  Rickard. 

The  working  force  was  informally  discussed.  Hardin 
said  they  could  depend  on  hobo  labor.  His  enthusiasm 
took  fire;  he  saw  the  work  begun  on  his  gate.  "That 
class  of  men  flock  like  bees  to  such  work  as  this.  There's 
no  trouble  getting  them ;  they  just  drop  in.  Curious,  isn't 
it,  how  such  fellows  keep  track  of  the  world's  work? 
You  build  a  levee,  you  begin  a  bridge,  and  there's  your 
hobo  on  the  spot.  It's  good  labor,  too,  though  it's  fickle." 
It  was  the  other  Hardin,  the  chiseled  man  of  affairs 
and  experience.  Rickard  agreed  that  they  would  find 
such  help,  but  it  would  not  do  to  rely  on  it.  The  big 
sewer  system  of  New  Orleans  was  about  completed;  he 
had  planned  to  write  there,  stating  the  need.  And  there 
was  a  man  in  Zacatecas,  named  Porter — 

"Frank  Porter?"  sneered  Hardin,  "that— murderer ?" 

"His  brother,"  Rickard  answered  pleasantly.  "Jim 
furnishes  the  men  for  the  big  mines  in  Sonora  and  Sina- 
loa.  He'll  send  us  all  the  labor  we  want,  the  best  for  our 
purpose.  When  it  gets  red-hot,  there's  no  one  like  a 
peon  or  an  Indian." 

"You'll  be  infringing  on  the  international  contract 
law,"  suggested  MacLean. 

"No.  The  camp  is  on  the  Mexican  side,"  laughed 
Casey.  "I'd  thought  of  that.  We'll  have  them  shipped 
to  the  nearest  Mexican  point,  and  then  brought  to  the 
border.  Mr.  Estrada  will  help  us." 

The  meeting  had  already  adjourned.  They  were  stand- 


RED   TAPE 


75 


ing  around  the  flat-top  desk.  Estrada  invited  them  all 
to  lunch  with  him,  in  the  car  on  the  siding.  MacLean 
said  that  he  had  to  get  back  to  Los  Angeles.  Mr.  Bab- 
cock  was  going  to  take  him  out  to  Grant's  Heading  in 
the  machine.  He  had  never  been  there.  They  had  break 
fasted  late.  He  looked  very  much  the  colonel  to  Rick- 
ard,  his  full  broad  chest  and  stiff  carriage  made  more 
military  by  his  trim  uniform  of  khaki-colored  cloth. 

"May  I  speak  to  you  about  your  boy,  Mr.  MacLean  ?" 

Hardin  caught  a  slight  that  was  not  intended.  He 
pushed  past  the  group  at  the  door  without  civility  or 
ceremony. 

The  steady  grave  eyes  of  the  big  frame  looked  at 
Rickard  inquiringly. 

"He  wants  to  stay  out  another  year.  I  hope  you  will 
let  him.  It's  not  disinterested.  I  shall  have  to  take  a 
stenographer  to  the  Heading  this  summer.  There  is  a 
girl  here;  I  couldn't  take  her,  and  then,  too,  I'm  old- 
fashioned;  I  don't  like  women  in  offices.  My  position 
promises  to  be  a  peculiar  one.  I'd  like  to  have  your  son 
to  rely  on  for  emergencies  a  stenographer  could  not 
cover." 

MacLean's  grave  features  relaxed  as  he  looked  down 
on  the  engineer,  who  was  no  small  man  himself,  and 
suggested  that  his  son  was  not  very  well  up  in  stenog 
raphy. 

"That's  the  least  of  it." 

"I  hope  that  he  will  make  a  good  stenographer !  Good 
morning,  gentlemen." 

At  table,  neither  Estrada  nor  his  guest  uncovered  their 
active  thought  which  revolved  around  Hardin  and  his 
hurt.  Instead,  Rickard  had  questions  to  ask  his  host 
on  river  history.  As  they  talked,  it  came  to  him  that 


76  THE   RIVER 

something  was  amiss — Estrada  was  accurate ;  he  had  all 
his  facts.  Was  it  enthusiasm,  sympathy,  he  lacked? 
Presently  he  challenged  him  with  it. 

Estrada's  eyes  dreamed  out  of  the  window,  followed 
the  gorge  of  the  New  River,  as  though  out  there,  some 
where,  the  answer  hovered. 

"Do  you  mean,  do  you  doubt  it?"  exclaimed  Rickard, 
watching  the  melancholy  in  the  beautiful  eyes. 

Estrada  shook  his  head,  but  without  decision.  "Noth 
ing  you'd  not  laugh  at.  I  can  laugh  at  it  myself,  some 
times." 

Rickard  waited,  not  sure  that  anything  more  was  com 
ing.  The  Mexican's  dark  eyes  were  troubled;  a  puzzle 
brooded  in  them.  "It's  a  purely  negative  sense  that  I've 
had,  since  I  was  a  child.  Something  falls  between  me 
and  a  plan.  If  I  said  it  was  a  veil,  it  would  be — some 
thing!"  His  voice  fell  to  a  ghost  of  tunefulness.  "And 
it's — nothing.  A  blank — I  know  then  it's  not  going  to 
happen.  It  is  terribly  final !  It's  happened,  often.  Now, 
I  wait  for  that — veil.  When  it  falls,  I  know  what  it 
means." 

"And  you  have  had  that — sense  about  this  river  busi 
ness?" 

Estrada  turned  his  pensive  gaze  on  the  American. 
"Yes,  often.  I  thought,  after  father's  death,  that  that 
was  what  it  meant.  But  it  came  again.  It  kept  coining. 
I  had  it  while  you  were  all  talking,  just  now.  I  don't 
speak  of  this.  It  sounds  chicken-hearted.  And  I'm  in 
this  with  all  my  soul— my  father— I  couldn't  do  it  any 
other  way,  but — " 

"You  think  we  are  going  to  fail  ?" 

"I  can't  see  it  finished,"  was  Estrada's  mournful  an 
swer.  He  turned  again  to  stare  out  of  the  window. 


RED    TAPE  77 

An  odd  sense  of  unreality  rested  for  an  instant  on 
Rickard.  Swiftly  he  rejected  it.  Outside,  the  sunshine, 
the  work  to  be  done,  the  river  running  wild — 

"You've  been  too  much  in  the  valley,  Mr.  Estrada !" 

Estrada  looked  at  him,  and  then  his  glance  went  back 
to  the  car  window.  His  silence  said  plainly:  "Oh,  I 
knew  you  would  not  believe  me!" 

"I  mean,  this  country  gets  on  men's  nerves.  It's  so — 
omnipotent!  The  victories  are  all  to  the  river's  side,  as 
yet.  We're  pygmies,  fighting  Titans.  We  fear  what  we 
have  never  conquered." 

"Oh,  that!"  He  could  see  that  Estrada  would  not 
argue  with  him.  "Oh,  we  all  get  that.  The  personal  feel 
ing,  as  if  it  were  really  a  dragon,  and  we  trying  to  shackle 
it  with  our  wisps  of  straw !" 

"A  few  lace  handkerchiefs  and  a  chiffon  veil!"  sang 
Rickard's  memory. 

"We  get  the  sense  of  being  resented,  of  angry  power. 
We  feel  like  interlopers  in  this  desert.  She  tells  us  all, 
in  her  own  terrible,  silent  way,  'You  don't  belong  here !'  " 

"That  has  been  quoted  to  me,  silently,  too!"  laughed 
Rickard.  And  they  were  on  solid  ground  again. 

"Who  are  the  river-men  in  the  valley  ?"  demanded  the 
newcomer.  "I  want  to  meet  them,  to  talk  to  them." 

"Cor'nel,  he's  an  Indian.  He's  worth  talking  to.  He 
knows  its  history,  its  legends.  Perhaps  some  of  it  is  his 
tory." 

"Where's  he  to  be  found?" 

"You'll  run  across  him!  Whenever  anything's  up,  he 
is  on  hand.  He  senses  it.  And  then  there's  Matt  Ham- 
lin." 

"I'll  see  him,  of  course.    Has  he  been  up  the  river?" 

"No,  but  I'll  tell  you  two  who  have.     Maldonado,  a 


78  THE   RIVER 

half-breed,  who  lives  some  twenty  miles  down  the  river 
from  Hamlin's.  He  knows  the  Gila  as  though  he  were 
pure  Indian.  The  Gila's  tricky!  Maldonado's  grand 
father  was  a  trapper,  his  great-grandfather,  they  say,  a 
priest.  The  women  were  all  Indian.  He's  smart.  Smart 
and  bad." 

Estrada's  Japanese  servant  came  back  into  the  car  to 
offer  tea,  freshly  iced. 

"That's  what  I  want,  smart  river-men,  not  tea!" 
laughed  Rickard.  "I  want  river  history." 

"There's  another  man  you  ought  to  meet."  Before  he 
spoke  the  name,  Rickard  had  a  flash  of  telepathy;  he 
knew  Estrada  would  say,  "Brandon." 

"He  was  with  the  second  Powell  expedition.  He's 
written  the  book  on  the  river.  He  knows  it,  if  any  man 
does." 

"That's  so.  I'd  forgotten  about  him.  I  think  I'll  run 
up  and  have  a  talk  with  him." 

"This  instant?"  smiled  the  Mexican,  for  his  guest  had 
risen.  "There's  no  train  out  until  to-night." 

"I'll  ask  Mr.  MacLean  to  take  a  passenger.  That  will 
save  me  several  hours ;  and  an  uncomfortable  trip." 

"You  wanted  these  maps."  Estrada  was  gathering 
them  together. 

Queer,  how  that  name  had  flashed  from  Estrada's  mind 
to  his.  He  hadn't  thought  about  Brandon — there  was 
something  in  it,  in  the  vitality,  the  force  of  thought.  If 
that  were  true,  then  why  not  the  other,  that  odd  sense 
that  Estrada  spoke  of?  Seeing  clear! 

"Your  maps,  Mr.  Rickard !" 

"Thank  you.  And  you  can  just  strangle  that  fore 
boding  of  yours,  Mr.  Estrada.  For  I  tell  you,  we're 
going  to  govern  that  river !" 


RED    TAPE  79 

Estrada's  pensive  smile  followed  the  dancing  step  of 
the  engineer  until  it  carried  him  out  of  sight.  Perhaps? 
Because  he  was  the  son  of  his  father,  he  must  work  as 
hard  as  if  conviction  went  with  him,  as  if  success  waited 
at  the  other  end  of  the  long  road.  But  it  was  not  going 
to  be.  He  would  never  see  that  river  shackled — 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   GARDEN    IN   A  DESERT 

HIS  dwelling  leaped  into  sight  as  Hardin  turned  the 
corner  of  the  street.  There  was  but  one  street  run 
ning  through  the  twin  towns,  flanked  by  the  ditches  of 
running  water.  The  rest  were  ditches  of  running  water 
edged  by  foot-paths.  Scowling,  he  passed  under  the 
overhanging  bird-cages  of  the  Desert  Hotel  without  a 
greeting  for  the  loungers,  whose  chairs  were  drawn  up 
against  the  shade  of  the  brick  walls.  His  abstraction 
aborted  the  hallo  of  jovial  Ben  Petrie,  who  was  leaving 
his  bank  for  his  vineyard,  the  more  congenial  half  of  his 
two-sided  life.  Petrie  stood  for  a  minute  on  the  narrow 
board-walk  watching  the  hunched  shoulders,  the  angry 
blind  progress.  He  shrugged.  Hardin  was  sore.  It 
ivas  pretty  tough.  Such  infernal  luck !  He  got  thought 
fully  into  his  English  Jrap.. 

Fred  Eggers  left  his  motley  counter,  and  joined  the 
group  of  lounging  Indians  outside  his  store.  He  had  a 
morning  paper  in  his  hand.  His  pale  blue  eyes  looked 
surprised  as  Hardin's  momentum  swept  him  past.  "Mr. 
Hardin/'  he  called  ineffectually. 

The  momentum  slackened  as  Hardin  neared  the  place 
he  called  his  home.  An  inner  tenderness  diluted  the 
sneer  that  disfigured  his  face.  He  could  see  Innes  as 
she  moved  around  in  the  little  fenced-in  strip  that  sur- 

80 


A   GARDEN    IN   A   DESERT  81 

rounded  her  desert  tent.  She  insisted  on  calling  it  a  gar 
den,  in  spite  of  his  raillery. 

"Gerty's  in  bed,  I  suppose,"  thought  Tom.  He  had  a 
sudden  vivid  picture  of  her  accusing  martyrdom.  His 
mouth  hardened  again.  Innes,  stooping  over  a  rose, 
passed  out  of  his  vision. 

It  came  to  Hardin  suddenly  that  a  man  has  made  a 
circle  of  failure  when  he  dreads  going  to  his  office  and 
shrinks  from  the  reproaches  at  home. 

"A  'has-been'  at  forty!"  he  mused.  Where  were  all 
his  ships  drifting? 

Innes,  straightening,  waved  a  gay  hand. 

"She's  raising  a  goodly  crop  of  barrels."  His  thought 
mocked  and  caressed  her.  Her  garden  devotion  was  a 
tender  joke  with  him.  He  loved  the  Hardin  trait  in  her, 
the  persistence  which  wfil  not  be  daunted.  An  occupa 
tion  with  a  Hardin  was  a  dedication.  He  would  not 
acknowledge  the  Innes  blood  in  her.  Like  that  fancy 
mother  of  hers?  Innes  was  a  Hardin  through  and 
through ! 

"It's  in  the  blood,"  ran  his  thought.  "She  can't  help 
it.  All  the  Hardins  work  that  way.  The  Hardins  al 
ways  make  fools  of  themselves !" 

Innes,  lifting  her  eyes  from  a  crippled  rose,  saw  that 
the  black  devils  were  consuming  him  again. 

"Will  you  look  at  this  wreck !"  she  cried. 

The  wind-storm  the  previous  week  had  made  a  sicken 
ing  devastation  of  her  labors.  The  morning-glories  alone 
were  scatheless.  A  pink  oleander  drooped  many  broken 
branches  from  which  miracles  of  perfect  flowers  were 
unfolding.  The  prettiest  blossom  to  Hardin  was  the 
gardener  herself.  She  was  vivid  from  eager  toil.  Har 
din  looked  at  her  approbatively.  He  liked  her  khaki 


82  THE   RIVER 

suit,  simple  as  a  uniform,  with  its  flowing  black  tie  and 
leather  belt.  She  looked  more  like  herself  to-day.  She 
had  bleached  out,  in  Tucson.  She  had  been  letting  her 
self  get  too  tanned,  running  around  without  hats.  Sun 
burn  paled  the  value  of  those  splendid  yellow  eyes  of 
hers.  He  could  always  tease  her  by  likening  them  to 
topazes. 

"Cat's  eyes,  why  don't  you  say  it  ?" 

She  pushed  a  teasing  lock  of  hair  out  of  her  eyes  with 
one  of  her  mud-splashed  garden  gloves.  It  left  a  lu 
dicrous  smudge  across  her  cheek. 

"Each  time  I  leave  this  garden,"  she  complained,  "I 
declare  I  won't  again.  Not  even  for  the  Marshalls." 
She  bent  over  again  to  adjust  a  bottomless  keg  around 
a  wind-whipped,  moribund  plant. 

"Quite  a  keg  plant!"  he  quizzed.  "Raising  anything 
else?" 

"And  the  glory  of  the  morning  he  does  not  see !"  she 
exclaimed  with  theatric  intent. 

His  eyes  ran  over  the  pink  and  purple  lines  of  cord- 
trained  vines  which  made  floral  screens  for  her  tent. 
Free  of  the  strings  overhead,  they  rioted  over  the  ra- 
mada,  the  second  roof,  of  living  boughs.  He  acknowl 
edged  their  beauty.  They  gave  grace  to  bare  necessity ; 
they  denied  the  panting,  thirsty  desert  just  beyond. 

He  remembered  his  own  ramada.  Gerty  had  hated  it, 
had  complained  of  it  so  bitterly  when  she  came  home 
from  New  York  that  he  had  had  it  pulled  down  and 
replaced  by  a  V  roof  of  pine  boards,  glaring  and  ugly. 
Gerty  was  satisfied,  for  it  was  clean ;  she  no  longer  felt 
that  she  lived  in  a  squaw-house.  Let  the  Indians  have 
ramadas;  there  was  no  earthly  reason  she  should.  He 
had  urged  that  the  desert  dwellers  had  valuable  hints  to 


A   GARDEN    IN    A   DESERT  83 

give  them.  But  what  was  a  ramada  to  him,  or  anything 
else? 

He  nodded  at  Innes. 

"They  are  doing  so  much  better  than  the  ones  you 
planted  at  the  office.  I  wonder  if  Sam  doesn't  water 
them  enough?"  His  mood  was  faultfinding.  "Didn't 
he  water  your  roses  while  you  were  gone  ?" 

"Oh,  he  waters  enough,"  smiled  his  sister.  "But 
Sam's  not  for  progress.  He  won't  see  the  difference  be 
tween  watering  and  irrigating." 

"It  looks  like  a  train  wreck,  or  a  whipped  prize-fighter, 
next  day,"  observed  Hardin. 

"It's  really  my  fault.  I  staked  it."  She  was  still 
mourning  over  her  calamity.  "I  forgot  to  barrel  it. 
Stakes  won't  do  here.  The  keg's  the  thing." 

"That's  what  they  think  in  Mexicali."  Hardin  turned 
to  leave. 

"The  joke's  as  stale  as  their  beer,"  retorted  Innes. 
She  did  not  want  him  to  go  so  soon.  She  pointed  out  a 
new  vine  to  him.  She  had  brought  it  from  Tucson; 
"Kudzu,"  they  called  it;  a  Japanese  vine.  And  there 
was  -another  broken  rose,  quite  beyond  the  help  of 
stripped  handkerchiefs  and  mesquit  splints. 

He  followed  her  around  the  tent,  her  prattle  falling 
from  his  grim  mood.  He  was  not  thinking  of  her  flowers 
except  as  a  mocking  parallel.  The  desert  storm  had 
made  a  havoc  of  his  garden — a  sorry  botch  of  his  life. 
He  and  Innes  had  been  trying  to  make  a  garden  out  of 
a  desert;  the  desert  had  flouted  them.  It  was  not  his 
fault.  Something  had  happened ;  something  quite  beyond 
his  power.  Luck  was  turning  against  him. 

Innes,  why,  she  was  playing  as  with  a  toy.  It  was  the 
natural  instinct  of  a  woman  to  make  things  pretty  around 


84  THE   RIVER 

her.  But  he  had  sacrificed  his  youth,  his  chances.  His 
domestic  life,  too — he  should  never  have  carried  a  dainty 
little  woman  like  Gerty  into  the  desert.  He  had  never 
reproached  her  for  leaving  him,  even  last  time  when  he 
thought  it  was  for  good.  The  word  burned  his  wound. 
Whose  good?  His  or  Gerty's?  Somehow,  though  they 
wrangled,  he  always  knew  it  would  turn  out  all  right; 
life  would  run  smoothly  when  they  left  the  desert.  But 
things  were  getting  worse ;  his  mouth  puckered  over  some 
recollections.  Yet  he  loved  Gerty;  he  couldn't  picture 
life  without  her.  He  decided  that  it  was  because  there 
had  never  been  any  one  else.  Most  fellows  had  had 
sweethearts  before  they  married ;  he  had  not,  nor  a  mis 
tress  when  she  left  him,  though  God  knows,  it  would 
have  been  easy  enough.  His  mouth  fell  into  sardonic 
lines.  Those  half-breed  women!  No  one,  even  when  a 
divorce  had  hung  over  him.  Oh,  he  knew  what  their 
friends  made  of  each  of  Gerty's  lengthened  flights ;  he 
knew !  But  that  had  been  spared  him,  that  vulgar  grisly 
spectacle  of  modern  life  when  two  people  who  have  been 
lovers  drag  the  carcass  of  their  love  over  the  grimy 
floor  of  a  curious  gaping  court.  He  shuddered.  Gerty 
loved  him.  Else,  why  had  she  come  back  to  him  ?  Why 
had  she  not  kept  her  threat  when  he  refused  to  abandon 
his  desert  project  and  turn  his  abilities  into  a  more  profit 
able  dedication?  He  could  see  her  face  as  she  stared 
flushing  up  into  his  that  nipping  cold  day  when  he  had 
run  into  her  on  Broadway.  He  remembered  her  co 
quetry  when  she  suggested  that  there  was  plenty  of  room 
in  her  apartment!  His  wife!  She  spoke  of  seeing  his 
pictures  in  the  papers.  "He  had  grown  to  be  a  great 
man !" 


A   GARDEN   IN   A   DESERT  85 

That  piquant  meeting,  the  week  following  had  been 
the  brightest  of  his  life.  He  was  sure  then  that  Gerty 
loved  him.  The  wrangles  were  only  their  different  ways 
of  looking  at  things.  Of  course,  they  loved  each  other. 
But  Gerty  couldn't  stand  pioneer  life.  She  had  loved 
him,  or  she  would  not  so  easily  have  been  persuaded  to 
try  it  over  again.  She  yearned  to  make  him  comfortable, 
she  said.  So  she  had  gone  back,  and  pulled  down  his 
ramada,  and  put  his  clothes  in  the  lowest  bureau  drawer ! 

"It  wasn't  either  of  our  faults,"  he  ruminated.  "It 
was  the  fault  of  the'  institution.  Marriage  itself  is  a 
failure.  Look  at  the  papers,  the  divorce  courts.  A  man's 
interests  are  no  longer  his  wife's.  Curious  that  it  should 
be  so.  But  it's  a  fact.  It  is  the  modern  discontent. 
Women  want  different  careers  from  their  husbands." 

Yet,  how  could  he  help  throwing  his  life  into  his  work? 
He  had  committed  himself ;  it  was  an  obligation.  Besides, 
he  was  a  Hardin ;  they  take  things  that  way.  And,  too, 
a  man  can  not  live  in  the  desert  the  best  years,  the  vivid 
years  of  his  life  without  absorbing  its  grim  indomitable 
spirit;  without  learning  to  love,  to  require  the  great  si 
lent  mornings,  the  vast  star-brilliance  of  the  nights ;  with 
out  falling  under  the  spell  of  the  land,  the  spell  of  elu- 
siveness  and  mystery,  of  false  distances,  illusions;  of 
content. 

If  it  were  not  for  that  indefinable  something,  his  al 
legiance  to  the  cause  which  mocked  at  reasons  and  defini 
tions  ;  oh,  he  knew ! — he  had  tilted  with  Gerty  and  been 
worsted! — he  would  have  resigned  from  the  company, 
his  company  which  had  dishonored  him.  Why  should  he 
stay  to  get  more  stabs,  more  wounds?  MacLean,  what 
in  God's  name  had  MacLean  ever  done  for  the  valley? 


86  THE   RIVER 

And  Rickard?  It  was  he,  Tom  Hardin,  who  had  pulled 
the  valley,  and  therefore  the  company,  from  ruin,  and  it 
was  that  very  act  which  had  ruined  him.  Yet  for  his 
life,  were  he  to  go  over  it  again,  he  knew  he  could  not 
do  differently.  A  curious  twist  of  the  ropes  which  had 
pulled  the  company  back  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice 
and  mangled  him.  Where  was  the  loyalty  of  his  associ 
ates?  Loyalty,  there  was  no  such  thing!  They  were 
cowards,  all  of  them.  Afraid  of  the  power  of  the  O.  P. 
Truckling  to  it !  Kotowing  to  Marshall,  shivering  every 
time  he  opened  those  profane  lips  of  his.  Bah!  It 
made  his  stomach  turn.  Oh,  he  saw  through  their  rea 
son  for  kicking  him  out.  He  hadn't  been  born  yesterday. 
This  was  a  big  thing,  too  big  not  to  rouse  cupidity,  cu 
pidity  of  men  and  corporations.  He  had  been  fooled  by 
Marshall's  indifference;  play,  every  bit  of  it;  theatric. 
Faraday's  reluctance?  Sickening.  It  was  a  plot.  Some 
one  had  put  him  up  to  it,  given  him  the  first  suggestion, 
made  him  think  it  was  his  own.  Hot  chestnuts,  all  right ! 
He  was  burned  all  right,  all  right !  And  the  last  scorch, 
this  pet  of  Marshall's!  Hardin  gave  a  scantling  in  his 
path  a  vicious  kick. 

The  girl's  prattle  had  died.  She  walked  with  him  si 
lently. 

At  the  door  of  her  tent,  she  stopped,  looking  at  him 
wistfully.  She  wished  he  could  hide  his  hurt.  If  he 
had  only  some  of  the  Innes'  pride ! 

"How  are  things  ?"    She  used  their  fond  little  formula. 

"Oh,  rotten!"  growled  Hardin,  flinging  away.  The 
gate  slammed  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

UNDER  THE  VENEER 

AN  hour  later  Innes,  blinking  from  the  sun,  stepped 
into  the  tent,  which  had  been  partitioned  with  rough 
redwood  boards  into  a  bed-chamber  on  the  right,  a  com 
bination  dining-room  and  "parlor"  on  the  left.  Her 
glance  immediately  segregated  the  three  stalks  of  pink 
geraniums  in  the  center  of  the  Mexican  drawn-work  cloth 
that  covered  the  table.  Gerty,  herself,  in  a  fresh  pink 
gingham  frock,  was  dancing  around  the  table  to  the  tune 
of  forks  and  spoons.  It  was  just  like  Gerty  to  dress  up 
to  her  setting,  even  though  it  were  only  a  pitiful  water- 
starved  bouquet.  She  had  often  tried  to  analyze  her 
sister-in-law's  hold  on  her  brother;  certainly  they  were 
not  happy.  Was  it  because  she  made  him  comfortable? 
Was  it  the  little  air  of  formality,  or  mystery,  which  she 
drew  around  her?  Her  rooms  when  Innes  was  allowed 
to  enter  them  were  always  flawless ;  Gerty  took  deep 
pride  in  her  housekeeping.  Why  was  it,  Innes  wondered, 
that  she  could  never  shake  off  her  suspicion  of  an  under 
lying  untidiness?  There  was  always  a  closed  door  on 
Gerty's  processes. 

"May  I  help  ?"    The  sun  was  still  yellowing  the  room 
to  her. 

"Hello  1"    Hardin  looked  up  from  the  couch  where  he 
was  lying.    Innes  suspected  it  of  being  a  frequent  retreat. 

87 


88  THE   RIVER 

She  had  found  it  tumbled  once  when  she  ran  over  early. 
It  was  then  that  Gerty  made  it  understood  that  she  liked 
more  formality.  Innes  was  rarely  in  that  tent  except  for 
meals  now,  or  during  her  alternating  week  of  house- 
chores. 

"I  was  afraid  I  was  late,"  said  the  girl. 

"Lunch  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes,"  announced 
Gerty  Hardin.  "Won't  you  sit  down?  There's  the  new 
Journal.  Sam  came  to  clean  this  morning,  and  I  couldn't 
get  to  the  lunch  until  an  hour  ago." 

Innes,  settling  herself  by  the  reading  table,  caught  her 
self  observing  that  it  would  not  have  taken  her  an  hour 
to  get  a  cold  lunch.  Still,  it  would  never  look  so  invit 
ing!  If  Gerty's  domestic  machinery  was  complicated 
and  private,  the  results  always  were  admirable.  The 
early  tomatoes  were  peeled  as  well  as  sliced,  and  were 
lying  on  a  bed  of  cracked  ice.  The  ripe  black  olives 
were  resting  in  a  lake  of  California  olive  oil.  A  bowl  of 
crisp  lettuce  had  been  iced  and  carefully  dried.  The 
bread  was  cut  in  precise  triangles;  the  butter  had  been 
shaved  into  foreign-looking  roses.  A  pitcher  of  the  val 
ley's  favorite  be-verage^jced  tea,  stood  by  Hardin's  plate. 
There  was~a  platter  of  colcTmeats. 

It  came  home  to  Innes  for  the  hundredth  time,  the  sur 
prise  of  such  a  meal  in  that  desert.  A  few  years  ago, 
and  what  had  a  meal  been  ?  She  threw  the  credit  of  the 
little  lunch  to  sulky  Tom  Hardin  lying  on  the  portiere- 
covered  couch,  his  ugly  lower  lip  outthrust  against  an 
unsmiling  vision.  It  was  Tom,  Tom  and  his  brave  men, 
the  sturdy  engineers,  the  dauntless  surveyors,  the  In 
dians  who  had  dug  the  canals,  those  were  the  ones  who 
had  spread  that  pretty  table,  not  the  buxom  little  woman 
darting  about  in  pink  gingham. 


UNDER   THE   VENEER  89 

"Is  it  because  I  don't  like  her?"  she  mused,  her  eyes 
on  the  pictures  in  the  style-book  which  had  just  come  in 
that  morning.  Certainly  Gerty  did  have  the  patience  of 
a  saint  with  Tom's  humors.  If  she  would  only  lose  that 
set  look  of  martyrdom!  It  was  not  for  an  outsider  to 
judge  between  a  husband  and  wife,  even  if  the  man  were 
her  own  brother.  She  could  not  put  her  finger  on  tjhe 
germ  of  their  painful  scenes ;  she  shrank  from  the  recol 
lection  of  Tom's  temper;  his  coarse  streak,  the  Gingg 
fiber,  her  own  mother  had  called  it.  Tom  was  rough, 
but  she  loved  him.  Why  was  it  she  was  sure  that  Gerty 
did  not  love  her  husband?  Yet  there  was  the  distrust, 
as  fixed  and  as  unjust  perhaps  as  the  suspicion  of  Gerty's 
little  mysteries. 

She  said  aloud :  "This  is  your  last  day.  My  week  be 
gins  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Hardin  adjusted  a  precise  napkin  before  she 
spoke. 

"I  think  I  will  keep  the  reins  for  a  month  this  time." 
Her  words  were  reflective,  as  though  the  thought  were 
new.  "I  get  my  hand  in  just  as  I  stop.  I  will  be  run 
ning  out  for  my  visit  in  a  few  weeks.  It  will  be  only 
fair  for  me  to  do  it  as  long  as  I  can." 

Again  the  girl  had  a  sense  of  subtlety.  Whenever 
Gerty  put  on  that  air  of  childish  confidential  delibera 
tion,  she  hunted  for  the  plot.  This  was  not  far  to  seek. 
Her  sister-in-law  was  passing  out  the  hot  season  to  her. 

"It's  all  ready."  Gerty's  glance  was  winging,  bird-like, 
over  the  table.  Nothing  had  been  forgotten.  She  gave 
a  little  sigh  of  esthetic  satisfaction.  Hardin  misinter 
preted  it. 

"I  ought  to  be  able  to  keep  a  servant  for  her."  It  was 
like  him  to  have  forgotten  the  Lawrence  days;  he  was 


90  THE   RIVER 

never  free  of  the  sense  of  obligation  to  the  dainty  little 
woman  who  was  born,  he  felt,  for  the  purple.  There 
was  nothing  too  good  for  Gerty.  He  felt  her  unspoken 
disappointments;  her  deprivations.  "Of  course,  she  can 
have  no  respect  for  me.  I'm  a  failure." 

"Doesn't  this  give  you  an  appetite?"  demanded  Innes 
heartily.  "And  I'm  to  be  a  lady  for  three  more  weeks." 
The  remark  was  thoughtless.  A  bright  flush  spread  over 
Gerty's  face.  She  caught  an  allusion  to  her  origin. 

Innes  saw  the  blush  and  remembered  the  boarding- 
house.  She  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  The  three 
relatives  sat  down  to  that  most  uncomfortable  travesty, 
a  social  meal  where  sociability  is  lacking.  Innes  said  it 
had  been  a  pleasant  morning.  Gerty  thought  it  had  been 
hot.  And  then  there  was  silence  again. 

Innes  began  to  tell  them  of  her  Tucson  visit,  when 
Gerty  laid  down  her  fork.  "I've  meant  to  ask  you  a 
hundred  times.  Did  you  attend  to  my  commission  in 
Los  Angeles?" 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you.  I  raked  the  town,  really  I  did, 
Gerty."  For  there  was  a  cloud  on  Gerty's  pretty  brow. 
"I  could  have  got  you  the  other  kind,  but  you  said  you 
did  not  want  it." 

"I  should  think  not."  The  childish  chin  was  lifted. 
"Those  complicated  things  are  always  getting  out  of 
order.  Besides,  if  I  had  an  adjustable  form,  everybody'd 
be  borrowing  it." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  demanded  Tom,  wak 
ing  up.  "Who'd  borrow  your  what,  Gert?" 

"Please  don't  call  me  Gert,  Tom,"  besought  his  wife 
plaintively.  "A  figure.  I  wanted  Innes  to  try  to  get  one 
for  me  in  Los  Angeles." 

"I  did  try,"  began  Innes. 


UNDER   THE   VENEER  91 

"Yours  is  good  enough  for  any  one.  Why  should  you 
get  another?"  He  was  openly  admiring  the  ample  bust 
swelling  under  the  pink  gingham. 

"Don't,  Tom." 

Innes  tried  to  explain  the  sincerity  of  her  search.  She 
had  visited  every  store  "which  might  be  suspected  of  hav 
ing  a  figure."  She  could  not  bring  a  smile  to  her  sister's 
face.  "There  was  none  your  size.  They  offered  to  or 
der  one  from  Chicago.  They  have  to  be  made  to  order, 
if  they  are  special  sizes.  You  are  not  stock  size,  did  you 
know  that?" 

"I  should  think  not,"  cried  Gerty,  bridling.  "My  waist 
is  absurdly  small  for  the  size  of  my  hips  and  shoulders." 

Innes  wondered  if  it  would  be  safe  to  agree  with  her. 

"When  will  it  be  here?" 

"You'll  be  disappointed."  Innes  found  herself  stam 
mering.  "But  not  for  six  weeks.  I  did  not  know 
whether  to  order  it  or  not." 

"And  I  in  Los  Angeles  with  my  summer  sewing  all 
done !  What  good  will  it  do  me  then  ?"  The  pretty  eyes 
looked  ready  for  childish  tears. 

"I  know.  That  is,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do,"  apolo 
gized  Innes  Hardin.  "I  decided  to  order  it  as  I'd  found 
the  place,  and  was  right  there,  but  I  made  sure  that  I 
could  countermand  the  order  by  telegram.  So  I  can  this 
very  afternoon.  I  knew  you  would  be  disappointed.  I 
was  sorry/' 

"I'll  need  it  next  winter,"  admitted  Gerty,  helping  her 
self  to  some  of  the  chilled  tomatoes.  "I'm  sure  I'm 
much  obliged  to  you.  I  hope  it  did  not  put  you  to  much 
trouble." 

The  words  raised  the  wall  of  formality  again.  Innes 
bent  over  her  plate. 


92  THE    RIVER 

"What  made  you  change  your  plans?"  suddenly  de 
manded  his  wife  of  Hardin.  "When  Sam  came  in  with 
your  bag,  he  surprised  me  so." 

"My  boss  kept  me."  Hardin's  face  looked  coarse, 
roughened  by  his  ugly  passion.  "Rickard,  your  old 
friend.  He  served  a  subpoena  on  me  at  the  station." 

"Oh,"  cried  Gerty.    "Surely,  he  did  not  do  that,  Tom  P 

"Sure  he  did."  Hardin's  face  was  black  with,  his  evil 
mood.  "I'm  only  an  underling,  a  disgraced  underling. 
He's  my  boss.  He's  going  to  make  me  remember  it." 

"You  mustn't  say  such  things,"  pouted  his  wife.  "If 
it  does  not  hurt  you,  if  you  do  not  care,  think  how  I 
must  feel—" 

"Oh,  rot !"  exclaimed  Hardin.  The  veneer  was  rubbed 
down  to  the  rough  wood.  Innes  saw  the  coarseness  her 
mother  had  complained  of,  the  Gingg  fiber. 

"I  suppose  you  think  I  like  to  take  orders,  to  jump  at 
the  snap  of  the  whip?"  He  was  deliberately  beating  up 
his  anger  into  a  froth.  "Oh,  sure,  I  do.  That's  a  Har 
din,  through  and  through." 

Again  the  angry  blood  flooded  his  wife's  cheeks.  He, 
too,  was  throwing  the  boarding-house  at  her. 

"You  did  it  yourself."  Gerty  with  difficulty  was  with 
holding  the  angry  tears.  "I  told  you  how  it  would  be. 
You  would  do  it." 

"Oh,  hell !"  cried  Tom,  pushing  back  his  plate. 

His  sister  looked  drearily  out  the  wire-screened  door. 
Her  view  was  a  dusty  street.  Hardin  got  up,  scraping 
his  chair  over  the  board  floor. 

"And  to  keep  it  from  me,"  persisted  the  wife.  "To  let 
me  ask  him  to  dinner — " 

"Does  that  dismal  farce  have  to  go  on?"  demanded 


UNDER    THE   VENEER  93 

Hardin,  turning  back  to  the  table.  "You'll  have  to  have 
it  without  me,  then.  I'll  not  stay  and  make  a  fool  of 
myself.  Ask  him  to  dinner.  Me !  I'll  see  myself." 

Innes  wished  she  were  in  the  neighboring  tent.  Tom 
was  lashing  himself  into  a  coarse  fury. 

To  her  dismay,  Gerty  burst  into  tears.  It  was  killing 
her,  the  disgrace,  she  cried.  She  couldn't  endure  it. 
She  couldn't  stand  it  there;  she  had  not  the  courage  to 
go  to  Los  Angeles,  where  her  friends  would  pity  her. 
It  was  crushing  her.  She  was  not  a  Hardin;  she  was 
sensitive ;  she  could  not  justify  everything  a  Hardin  did 
as  right,  no  matter  what  the  consequences.  The  pretty 
eyes  obscured,  she  rushed,  a  streaming  Niobe,  from  the 
room. 

The  brother  and  sister  avoided  each  other's  eyes. 
Innes  rose  and  cleared  the  table  of  the  dishes.  She  made 
a  loud  noise  with  the  running  water  in  the  shed,  racket 
ing  the  pans  to  drown  the  insistence  of  Gerty's  sobbing. 

She  kept  listening  for  Tom's  step.  She  wanted  to  go 
with  him  when  he  left;  he  must  not  reach  the  office  in 
the  blackness  of  that  mood.  She  wished  he  would  not 
betray  his  feelings ;  yet  she  knew  it  was  not  he  who  was 
to  blame. 

When  she  heard  the  screen  door  slam,  she  flashed  out 
the  back  way. 

"Going?"  she  called  after  him.  "Wait  for  me."  She 
dashed  into  her  tent  for  her  hat.  She  had  to  run  to 
catch  up  with  him. 

"I  thought  I'd  go  and  see  Mrs.  Parrish,"  she  caught 
up,  panting.  "I've  not  seen  her  since  I  came  back,  and 
I  felt  anxious.  Have  you  heard  how  she  was  ?" 

"A  man's  a  fool  who'll  bring  in  a  nervous  silly  woman 
like  that,"  growled  Hardin,  stalking  along.  "Any  man  is 


94  THE   RIVER 

a  fool/'  he  added  to  himself,  "who  expects  to  keep  the 
love  or  the  respect  of  a  woman  in  a  place  like  this. 
Women  want  luxury,  modern  women.  They  can't  stand 
hardships."  He  was  a  fool,  like  Parrish. 

"Any  of  the  rigs  going  over  in  that  direction  to-day  ?" 
inquired  his  sister.  She  told  herself  that  if  Gerty  had 
made  that  conversational  opening,  she  would  have  con 
victed  her  of  tactlessness.  The  Parrish  theme  was  cer 
tainly  an  inspired  one ! 

"I  should  send  MacLean  over  to  the  Wistaria.  Those 
Indians  shirk  if  we  don't  jump  in  on  them  every  day." 
Then  his  face  blackened  again.  "I  was  going  to  send 
the  new  machine.  But  I  suppose  the  boss  will  be  us 
ing  it." 

All  topics  were  equally  dangerous  with  Tom  in  this 
mood! 

The  telegraph  operator  told  Hardin  that  Rickard  had 
gone  to  Imperial  with  MacLean. 

"Truckling,"  sneered  Hardin,  thrusting  out  his  lip. 

Innes  felt  a  thud  of  anger. 

"Wish  he  could  stand  a  hurt  like  an  Innes,"  she 
thought. 

"A  toady,"  concluded  Tom.  "How  do  you  like  your 
new  boss,  boys  ?"  The  men  crowded  around  him.  Innes, 
through  an  open  window,  saw  MacLean,  Jr.,  in  the  com 
pany's  new  machine,  leaving  the  sheds.  She  ran  out  of 
the  office. 

"I  won't  listen  to  you,"  she  defied  her  disloyal 
thoughts.  "He's  my  brother.  I'll  not  listen  to  you." 

A  wide-open  smile  was  on  MacLean's  face  as  he  swung 
the  long  gray  machine  around  to  the  morning-glories. 

"Coming  to  Wistaria?    Oh,  that's  bully." 


CHAPTER  IX 

ON   THE   WISTARIA 

"X/OU   are    sure    you    are    feeling   better?"    insisted 

X  Tnnes. 

Mrs.  Parrish's  answer  was  careful.  She  thought  she 
was  feeling  better  f  She  had  .not  had  one  of  those  bad 
nervous  headaches  for  a  week.  "It  was  a  week  come 
Sunday,  no,  it  was  more  than  that,  it  was  of  a  Saturday 
when  the  last  bad  spell  came  on.  It  was  one  of  those 
hot  days,  the  second  of  the  three,  you  remember;  oh, 
but  you  were  in  Tucson.  Did  you  get  to  Los  Angeles  ?" 
Her  sigh  was  almost  ecstatic.  "Los  Angeles  is  nice.  I 
haven't  been  there  for  two  years  come  September." 

"You  surely  will  go  out  this  summer?"  The  hectic 
color,  the  snapping  restlessness  of  her  hostess'  black  eyes 
disquieted  the  girl. 

"I've  not  decided,"  evaded  Mrs.  Parrish.  "Oh,  I'm 
all  right!  That  last  medicine  I  got  from  Los  Angeles 
helped  me  a  lot.  As  I  was  saying,  it  was  that  hot  Satur 
day,  and  I  had  my  baking  to  do.  I  can't  cook  on  Sun 
day;  Jim  hates  to  see  me  working;  I  have  to  get  at  it 
when  he's  out  of  the  way.  I  think  the  oil  must  have  been 
bad;  I  don't  know  what  Coulter  was  thinking  of — I 
always  insist  on  paying  for  the  best ;  the  cheap  sort  will 
smell.  Maybe,  it  wasn't  the  oil,  but  by  noon  I  could 

95 


96  THE   RIVER 

hardly  see.  I  sent  back  that  can,  and  had  them  send  out 
new  wicks — it's  a  blue-flame  stove  I  use — but  of  course 
that  didn't  cure  the  headache.  And  the  cooking  not  done." 

Innes  suggested  that  there  were  two  cooks  in  that 
family!  Everybody  knew  that  Jim  Parrish  had  devel 
oped,  through  the  exigency  of  desert  conditions  and  his 
wife's  headaches,  into  the  most  helpful  of  cooks. 

Mrs.  Parrish  smiled  with  sad  pride.  "He's  had  to  do 
it  too  much.  He's  too  good  to  me,  Jim  is."  She  was 
wishing  she  had  not  been  grinding  coffee  in  the  lean-to 
when  Miss  Hardin  came.  The  automobile  was  on  her 
before  she  had  time  to  get  away,  and  Miss  Hardin  speak 
ing  to  her  through  the  screening.  With  the  old  purple 
flannelette  waist  on!  She  had  put  it  on  that  morning 
for  "the  last  time."  She  hoped  Miss  Hardin  would  not 
notice  the  missing  buttons.  She  stretched  a  torn  and 
faded  apron  of  gingham  that  had  once  been  brown 
across  her  knees.  She  did  not  dare  take  it  off.  She  had 
put  on,  too,  her  old  blue  alpaca  skirt,  promising  herself 
that  she  would  use  it  for  rags,  tear  it  up  before  she  could 
ever  yield  to  the  temptation  of  wearing  it  again.  She 
looked  like  a  slouch,  she  knew ;  and  her  hands  fidgeted 
over  the  deficiencies  of  her  dress.  The  desert  was  ex 
cuse  enough!  The  washing  had  to  be  sent  out  of  the 
valley,  or  it  had  to  be  done  by  one's  self,  the  water  boiled 
niggardly  on  a  blue-flame  stove.  She  had  good  things 
to  wear,  but  she  could  see  down  the  road  a  long  way, 
and  visitors  were  scarce;  she  could  sight  them  a  mile 
off,  and  get  into  clean  clothes  and  be  sitting  waiting  in 
the  tent  parlor  when  the  folk  drove  up.  But  the  new 
automobile  of  the  company,  seen  for  the  first  time, 
changed  that.  A  puff,  a  rumble,  and  there  it  was  upon 


ON    THE   WISTARIA  97 

her,  with  Miss  Hardin  smiling  at  her  through  the  screen 
window ! 

"Washing  or  no  washing,  I'll  have  to  keep  ready  to 
see  folks,"  she  resolved.  She  tried  to  make  the  hand 
look  casual  that  was  holding  the  rebellious  waist  together 
over  her  meager  bust. 

"It's  been  cool  since  I  got  home,"  cheered  Innes. 

Mrs.  Parrish  hoped  that  Miss  Hardin  could  not  see 
behind  the  rough  screen  into  the  space  that  was  called 
a  bedroom.  The  bed  was  tossed  and  tumbled ;  the  night 
clothes  lying  around.  And  she  had  not  washed  last 
week.  "I'd  be  ashamed  to  have  her  see  those  clothes," 
she  thought.  "Take  this  chair,  Miss  Hardin,"  she  begged. 
"It's  more  comfortable."  Innes  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
stay  where  she  was,  but  she  had  to  surrender  to  the 
other's  nervous  persistence. 

Mrs.  Parrish  kept  her  hand  over  her  gaping  placket 
as  she  made  the  change.  "Yes,  it's  been  cool,"  she  an 
swered,  "but,  oh,  the  wind !  Ain't  it  terrible?  They  say 
as  these  tents  won't  blow  down,  they  are  so  well  put  to 
gether.  Do  you  believe  it,  Miss  Hardin?  That  the 
'spider'  coming  down  so  low  shelters  it  so  that  it  couldn't 
blow  over?" 

"Of  course  they  won't  blow  over!"  chirped  Innes 
Hardin. 

Mrs.  Parrish  sighed.  "That's  what  Jim  says.  I  wish 
I  could  believe  it.  I'm  not  doubting  you,  or  him,  neither, 
Miss  Hardin ;  I  know  you  mean  what  you  say.  But  when 
the  wind  blows,  and  the  tent  creaks,  and  strains,  oh,  I 
know  then  as  it's  coming  down ;  I  can't  sleep  those  windy 
nights.  I  just  lie  and  plan  which  way  I'll  jump  when  it 
goes." 


98  THE   RIVER 

Innes  tried  to  laugh  at  her,  but  the  woman's  fear  was 
too  real. 

"I've  made  myself  learn  to  love  the  wind,"  she  urged. 
"Don't  you  think  you  could,  too?  Try  to  think  of  it  as 
gay ;  as  the  air  of  the  world  on  some  mad,  reckless  romp. 
It  gets  into  your  blood,  then,  and  you  want  to  run,  to 
dance.  'Oh,  the  whole  world  is  glad  of  the  wind !'  " 

"The  wind  in  Nebraska's  like  that,  but  this !  Why,  it 
sounds  like  angry  devils  to  me,  all  shrieking  to  me  to  get 
out ;  that  I  don't  belong  here.  I  cover  up  my  ears  with 
the  bedclothes,  but  it's  no  use.  I  can  hear  them  just  the 
same:  'I'll  blow  you  away.  I'll  blow  you  away.'  And 
then  the  dust  it  brings ;  the  dirt !  There's  no  use  trying 
to  be  clean."  The  mouth  muscles  twitched  unpleasantly. 

"How  is  the  neuralgia?"  inquired  Innes,  helpless 
against  this  determined  pessimism. 

"Better.  That  new  medicine  is  helping  that.  I  seemed 
to  wear  out  the  good  effects  of  those  powders." 

"Have  you  begun  to  sleep  out-of-doors  yet  ?" 

Mrs.  Parrish  shivered.  "I  wouldn't  sleep  a  wink.  I'd 
be  waiting  for  Indians  all  night." 

"The  Indians  are  harmless,"  cried  Innes.  "They 
wouldn't  hurt  any  one." 

"They're  Indians !"  persisted  Mrs.  Parrish.  "I'll  never 
get  over  being  afraid  of  their  dark  faces.  They're 
heathens." 

Innes  turned  her  eyes  hopelessly  away  from  the  wom 
an's  twitching  face.  She  looked  out  the  wire-meshed 
door  beyond  the  line  of  stakes  which  stood  for  the  pro 
posed  canal.  She  wondered  when  MacLean,  Jr.,  would 
be  coming  back  for  her. 

"Is  that  a  company  rig?"  she  asked. 

"I  declare  if  it  isn't  the  Busby  wagon !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 


ON    THE   WISTARIA  99 

Parrish,  jumping  up  and  going  to  the  door.  Her  dress 
threatened  to  leave  her.  "She's  driving  the  roans. 
There's  somebody  with  her.  It  must  be  Mr.  Busby !" 

The  wretched  room  was  then  fully  revealed  to  the 
guest.  There  was  a  rent  in  the  loud-patterned  couch 
cover  of  green  and  red;  the  table  cover,  a  fringed  imi 
tation  damask,  was  askew.  Disorder  leaped  from  beneath 
the  couch,  from  the  boxes  by  the  door,  from  the  room 
beyond.  A  graphophone  perched  uncertainly  on  the  edge 
of  the  table.  A  pile  of  Youth's  Companions  toppled  un 
certainly  away  over  a  pine  box.  There  were  a  few  pic 
tures  from  Life  tacked  upon  the  board  walls;  a  few 
were  pasted  to  the  canvas  top-walls.  Innes  segregated 
the  two  influences.  The  graphophone,  the  file  of  Youth's 
Companions,  the  pictures  from  Life,  these  were  the  con 
tributions  of  Jim  Parrish  toward  the  elevating  of  their 
sordid  life.  The  dirt,  the  disorder  made  up  no  less  a 
heroic  subscription  from  the  wife,  who  was  too  frail  for 
the  sacrifice,  too  fond  and  too  proud  for  a  surrender. 

"How  can  you  see  so  far  ?"  Innes  asked.  "I  thought  I 
could  see  farther  than  most  people,  but  this  glare  blinds 
me." 

"If  you  lived  over  here  in  Number  Six,  miles  off  from 
everybody,  with  nobody  to  see,  unless  it's  the  engineers 
or  those  black  Indians,  you'd  learn  to  know  folks  miles 
off.  It's — yes,  it  is  Mr.  Busby.  He's  been  promising  to 
bring  her  over  here  to  sit  with  me  the  first  time  he  came 
to  inspect  the  Wistaria.  It's  to  come  right  past  here 
when  it's  finished.  I'll  be  seeing  folks  then.  But  I 
shouldn't  complain  of  not  having  visitors.  Two  in  one 
day!" 

To  Innes  Hardin  the  excitement  seemed  all  out  of  pro 
portion  to  the  cause.  Dark  somber  blotches  were  coming 


TOO  THE   RIVER 

out  on  the  woman's  skin.    "Sit  down.    It's  too  warm  for 
you  by  the  door." 

"They  might  go  past,"  began  Mrs.  Parrish,  when  a 
smell  of  burning  food  smote  both  their  nostrils.  "The 
rice  and  codfish's  burning,"  she  exclaimed,  and  fled  to 
the  kitchen  in  the  lean-to. 

She  was  not  back  in  time  to  greet  her  guest,  whose 
vigorous  entrance  struck  at  once  the  note  of  middle-aged, 
experienced  authority.  Innes  had  met  her  but  once  be 
fore,  but  she  recognized  the  species,  the  woman  who  has 
the  best  recipe  for  bread,  the  most  valuable  hints  for 
housekeepers ;  handy  in  the  sick  room,  indispensable  at 
accouchements ;  a  kindly  irresistible  vulture. 

Their  talk  was  of  the  coming  heat,  the  new  canal ;  the 
difference  it  would  make  to  "Number  Six";  the  melon 
crop. 

Mrs.  Parrish  came  fluttering  back,  her  brown  apron 
changed  for  a  clean  white  one.  A  few  pins  sealed  the 
gap  in  the  unutterable  purple  waist.  She  could  not  get 
another  without  passing  through  the  sitting-room,  and 
she  had  a  feeling  of  shame  to  emphasize  her  embarrass 
ment  before  Miss  Hardin.  Her  cheeks  were  redder,  her 
eyes  more  glittering. 

She  established  Mrs.  Busby  on  the  wire-collapsible 
couch,  with  the  green  and  red  flowered  cover.  The 
guest  preferred  a  straight  chair,  but  Mrs.  Parrish  would 
not  hear  of  it.  She  herself  had  a  rocker.  Perched  on 
one  edge  of  it,  she  rocked  back  and  forth  violently,  until 
her  chair  kept  grating  against  Innes'.  The  girl  pitied  the 
woman's  excitement,  wondering  at  it. 

Airs.  Parrish  was  worked  up  to  almost  hysterical  so 
ciability.  It  was  as  if  a  deep  desert  well  had  been  tapped. 
Her  rocker  swaying  interminably,  she  told  them  of  her 


ON   THE   WISTARIA  101 

life  at  home,  of  the  farm  they  were  just  clearing  of  the 
mortgage;  of  her  love  for  Nebraska.  She  would  never 
forget  that  day  when  a  friend,  they  wouldn't  know  him, 
but  it  was  Sam  Kirkland,  anyway !  when  he  came  through 
on  his  way  back  East  to  get  his  family.  He  told  the 
wonderful  story  of  the  Imperial  Valley — of  the  country 
below  sea-level,  where  even  cactus  would  not  grow.  To 
their  skeptical  ears  he  had  unfolded  a  tale  of  rich  soils, 
of  desert  redemption — of  irrigation  "which  made  Jim 
Parrish  just  sit  up,  I  can  tell  you."  The  early  crops,  the 
water  scientifically  applied,  the  hothouse  heat,  the  mil 
lions  in  sight.  Was  he,  Sam  Kirkland  goin'  back  ?  Well, 
sure.  He  was  no  man's  fool.  He  knew  opportunity 
when  he  saw  it. 

And  then  the  pamphlets!  When  they  began  to  come 
she  fell  to  watching  her  Jim  uneasily.  All  their  friends 
were  in  Nebraska ;  and  her  doctor.  "Let  well  enough 
alone,"  says  I.  "How  can  I  live  without  Doctor  Pratt, 
who  knows  all  my  symptoms?  But  Jim  just  would 
come !"  She  related  the  weary  minute  details  of  their 
home-breaking;  of  their  move  from  Nebraska.  Her  im 
pressions  of  California,  deeply  registered,  were  passed 
on  to  her  guests.  Her  horror  of  the  valley.  Her  fear 
of  the  Indians — her  fear  of  the  wind,  of  centipedes,  and 
she  knew  that  the  water  was  typhoidal — 

"Typhoidal?  Bosh!"  interjected  Maria  Busby.  She 
had  something  to  say  about  the  water,  but  she  could  not 
get  it  in.  The  rocker  grew  more  agitated.  "The  very 
rocker  which  had  been  brought  in  on  a  wagon  from  Old 
Beach!  That  was  before  the  railroad  came  in;  every 
one  had  to  wagon  it  from  Old  Beach.  But  that  was  be 
fore  their  time ! 

"I    don't   sleep.     That's   the   trouble   with   me,"    she 


102  THE   RIVER 

jumped  back  to  her  ailments,  her  nervous  eyes  passing 
from  Mrs.  Busby's  face  to  Innes  Hardin's.  "Jim  calls 
me  the  desert  watch-dog.  I  feel  as  I  must  keep  an  ear 
and  eye  trained  on  the  desert  to  see  what  it's  going  to  do 
next;  or  the  river;  or  the  Indians." 

Mrs.  Busby  thought  she  saw  a  chance  to  talk  of  the 
water,  and  why  it  was  not  typhoidal.  But  she  was  not 
swift  enough.  Innes  was  cheered  to  hear  the  chug  of 
the  company  automobile.  Before  another  stream  of  talk 
started  on  its  irresistible  flow,  she  made  her  escape. 
Through  the  screen  door,  as  she  was  borne  away,  she 
could  see  Mrs,  Parrish,  still  wildly  rocking, 


CHAPTER  X 


FEAR 


MRS.  Parrish's  chair  continued  to  plunge.  It  rocked 
and  pitched  like  a  ship  in  a  storm.  Her  tongue 
gathered  excitement  from  the  motion.  Mrs.  Busby  looked 
with  anxiety  at  the  graphophone  perching  uncertainly  on 
the  pine  box.  The  curved  rocker  was  threatening  it. 
Mrs.  Parrish  drew  back,  and  the  danger  was  once  again 
averted.  She  was  plowing  her  way  now  toward  the 
wire  couch  covered  with  the  red  and  green  tapestry 
ordered  from  a  circular  from  Howe  and  Wort's,  Chicago. 
Mrs.  Busby,  usually  placid,  caught  a  little  of  the  excite 
ment.  If  she  had  nerves  she  told  herself,  she  would  be 
turned  crazy.  As  it  was,  nerveless,  and  poised  by  the 
support  of  a  newly  acquired  philosophy,  she  watched, 
hypnotized,  the  menace  of  that  desperate  rocker.  Two 
lurid  spots  glowed  in  the  cheeks  of  her  hostess.  The  ex 
citement  of  hostess-ship  was  consuming  her.  Entertain 
ing,  in  simple  folk  vocabulary,  means  talking.  So  Mrs. 
Parrish  talked. 

When  her  ailments  were  exhausted,  she  began  on  her 
neighbors'.  Mrs.  Busby  caught  her  breath  as  the  rocker 
jabbed  the  pine  box  carrying  the  talking-machine.  "I 
wonder  why  she  wants  a  talking-machine?"  she  asked 
herself  with  the  grim  humor  which  had  won  sturdy  Sam 
Busby  twenty  years  before  when  he  had  acquired  the 

103 


104  THE   RIVER 

habit  of  buying  bread  at  the  Home  Bakery  in  a  suburb 
of  Boston  where  Maria  Mathes  served. 

Mrs.  Parrish  was  embarked  now  on  the  sea  of  a 
neighbor's  woe,  the  rocker  working  toward  the  couch.  A 
newcomer  into  the  valley,  Mrs.  Dowker,  was  the  subject 
of  another  JEneid.  It  transpired  that  Mr.  Dowker  had 
been  reading  desert  literature,  too.  He  had  heard  of 
wonderful  cures  effected  by  desert  air.  He  dreamed  to 
make  a  fortune  and  recreate  a  sickly  wife.  Mrs.  Dowker 
from  a  hospital  bed  begged  to  be  left  behind  for  a  year. 
Mrs.  Parrish  dwelt  on  the  Dowker  pilgrimage  with 
ghoulish  realism.  Mrs.  Dowker  was  failing  under  the 
labors  of  desert  life ;  the  little  boy  was  always  ailing.  It 
was  hard  to  get  bottled  water  "in  there."  Mrs.  Dowker 
had  to  boil  every  drop  they  drank. 

Mrs.  Busby  saw  her  chance  and  grabbed  it.  "I  don't 
believe  in  boiled  water,"  she  announced.  Mrs.  Parrish 
was  ready  to  pick  up  her  thread,  but  Mrs.  Busby  was 
not  to  be  ousted. 

"I  don't  believe  in  all  this  fuss  about  bottled  water,  nor 
in  boiled  water,  either.  The  water  of  a  place  is  the  water 
one  should  drink.  You  breathe  the  air,  why  shouldn't 
you  drink  the  water  ?"  Her  logic  was  terrifically  convinc 
ing  to  herself.  "To  be  consistent,  why  shouldn't  you 
bring  in  bottled  air?  The  water  of  a  place  is  the  water 
that  agrees  with  one  in  that  place.  Why,  that's  as  plain 
as  poverty !  Look  at  the  Indians.  They've  been  drink 
ing  this  water  for  a  hundred  years,  and  over.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  an  Indian  dying  because  he  drank  too  much 
water?"  It  was  a  touch  of  the  Maria  Mathes  sardonic 
humor. 

Mrs.  Busby  quoted  Mrs.  Hadley.  "Didn't  every  one 
scare  her  into  thinking  that  the  canal  water  was  not  fit 


FEAR  105 

to  drink,  and  didn't  she  boil  every  drop  that  went  down 
a  Hadley  throat  ?" 

"But  that  was  different,"  tried  to  interpose  Mrs.  Par- 
rish,  but  Mrs.  Busby  held  the  rostrum. 

"And  that  first  year,  wasn't  the  three  of  them,  herself 
and  her  two  grown  sons,  down  with  typhoid?  Where'd 
they  get  it?  Out  of  the  air?  You  can't  talk  to  me  of 
boiled  water." 

"Do  you  think  it  was  the  boiled  water  that  killed  Joe 
Hadley?"  demanded  Mrs.  Parrish,  fear  reducing  her 
black  eyes  to  points  of  startled  light. 

"There's  the  facts,"  said  her  guest  with  an  oracular 
wave  of  the  hand.    "Take  'em,  or  leave  'em."    And  then 
she  practised  passing  on  her  second  lesson.     "It  was  the 
fear  of  the  water  as  killed  them.    That's  my  belief." 
"Fear?" 

"Fear,"  declaimed  Mrs.  Busby,  rising  out  of  reach  of 
the  suspended  rocker,  and  taking  the  Morris  chair  de 
serted  by  Innes  Hardin.  "Fear  is  poison."  She  watched 
the  effect  of  her  words,  for  a  careful  second.  She  had  no 
intention  of  being  entertained  any  more ! 

She  answered  the  round  question  in  Mrs.  Parrish's 
eyes. 

"I'm  only  just  beginning  it — I  see  it  as  plain  as  proph 
ecy,  but  it's  hard  to  explain.     The  fear  of  a  thing  gives 
you  a  thing  itself.    There  is  no  such  thing  as  pain."    A 
loud  protest  from  Mrs.  Parrish  warned  her  into  guard-    - 
ing  her  outposts.     "There  is  no  such  thing  as  pain.     It         I 
is  only  fear  of  the  pain  which  gives  it  to  you.     It  is  so        j 
clear  to  me;  I  wish  I  could  explain  it.     But  I've  some 
pamphlets;  I'll  send  them  over  by  Sam,  the  next  time 
he  comes  over  to  the  Wistaria.     This  new  canal  ought 
to  be  helping  you  over  here,"  she  hazarded. 


io6  THE   RIVER 

"I  heard  as  you  were  taking  that  up,  the  new 
thoughts,"  Mrs.  Parrish  returned  to  the  main  issue.  "Is 
that  a  part  of  it?" 

"Fear?  you  mean.  Have  you  never  thought  yourself 
into  a  toothache?" 

Parrish  toothache  had  been  too  recent  to  be  imaginary. 
"It's  decay,  usually,  with  me,"  she  faltered.  "Decay, 
and  then  the  nerves  get  exposed.  Mine  die  easily.  I  just 
lie  awake  sometimes,  all  night,  dreading  as  one  of  my 
nerves  will  die,  and  with  no  good  dentist  this  side  of  Los 
Angeles." 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so  ?"  Mrs.  Busby  thrilled  over  this 
unexpected  ally.  "Well,  if  you  agree  that  you  can  think 
yourself  into  a  pain,  can't  you  think  yourself  out  of  it? 
It  must  work  both  ways.  That's  logic." 

"Not  a  toothache."  The  black  beady  eyes,  shut  ob 
stinately  over  their  conviction.  "That's  real.  Perhaps 
you  never  had  one  ?" 

"Not  since  I've  begun  to  study.  And  besides,  they're 
false.  They're  not  mine,  the  teeth,  I  mean.  Didn't  you 
never  guess  it  ?  Pretty  good  work,  I  tell  Sam.  They  fool 
every  one.  He  put  in  two  large  gold  fillings  in  the  front 
teeth,  so  as  they'd  look  just  like  the  ones  I  lost.  There's 
Sam  coming  now.  I  promised  I'd  not  keep  him  waitin'. 
I'll  send  you  those  leaflets.  And  I'll  come  out  and  ex 
plain  them  some  day.  But  I'm  busy  now,  getting  ready 
for  the  hot  weather.  Coin'  out  this  year?" 

Mrs.  Parrish  thought  not. 

Sam  Busby  shouted  through  the  door  that  he  was  in 
a  hurry;  that  he  had  to  leave  her  at  home,  and  get  out 
to  Grant's  Heading.  There  was  trouble  there.  A  mes 
senger  had  just  caught  him. 

Mrs.  Busby's  farewell  to  Mrs.  Parrish  had  to  be  casual. 


FEAR  107 

She  clambered  up  into  the  seat  beside  her  short  stubby 
master.  Sam  had  a  short  blackened  pipe  between  his 
teeth,  obviously  his  own.  No  store  or  dentist  would  ac 
knowledge  them.  His  sombrero,  battered  and  sunburned, 
was  pulled  low  over  his  jolly  blue  eyes. 

She  opened  a  large  black  cotton  umbrella. 

"She'll  never  grasp  it,"  she  was  thinking  aloud. 

"Grasp  what?"  the  humorous  eyes  turned  toward  her. 

"The  new  thoughts.  If  I  could  only  get  her  to  throw 
away  that  shelf  of  medicines." 

"Now,  for  the  lord's  sake,  don't  go  proselyting, 
Maria." 

"How  can  I,  when  I  haven't  learned  to  hold  a  thought 
yet,  myself  ?" 

"Hold  a — what?    Whatever  you  are  talking  about?" 

"You  hold  a  good  thought— it's  like  the  Catholics 
crossing  themselves  with  holy  water,  only  it  isn't.  It 
keeps  off  bad  thoughts — trouble.  It  sounds  easy,  but  it's 
terribly  hard." 

"Jew  Peter!" 

She  mistook  his  exclamation.  "Well,  you  just  try  it 
yourself.  Sometime,  when  you're  just  a-dyin'  for  a 
smoke,  just  you  hold  the  thought  that  you  are  smokin', 
and  see  if  it's  easy." 

He  looked  at  her  a  few  minutes  reflectively  before 
speaking.  Was  Maria  losing  all  her  humor?  He  had 
been  noticing  a  tendency  to  dictate,  a  growing  dogmatism. 
Jew  Peter !  Like  her  mother !  How  he  had  dreaded  the 
corpulent  and  dogmatic  Mrs.  Mathes,  whom  he  had 
learned  to  respect  at  a  distance,  a  very  complete  distance ! 
He  had  loved  Maria  not  only  for  herself,  but  for  the 
dissimilarity  to  her  mother.  Come  to  think  of  it,  matron- 
hood,  middle-aged  matronhood,  brought  dictatorial  au- 


,io8  THE    RIVER 

thority  with  the  dreaded  double  chin.  On  every  hand, 
one  sees  young  girls  and  gaiety.  Does  the  gaiety  go  with 
the  girlhood  ?  He  stole  a  distrustful  look  at  Mrs.  Busby. 
He  had  not  heard  her  laugh  or  crack  a  joke  for  a  long 
while.  He  felt  cheated,  as  though  he  had  bought  a  piece 
of  goods  that  did  not  wear  well. 

"Maria  Busby,"  he  said  solemnly,  "when  it's  time 
for  me  to  take  to  holdin'  thoughts,  it'll  be  time  for  me  to 
quit  holdin'  anything.  Now,  what  I've  always  liked 
about  you  was  that  you  were  not  eternally  meddlin'  and 
fussin'  like  other  men's  wives.  You've  minded  your  own 
business.  That's  what  I  liked.  Keep  to  it.  I  don't  care 
what  new  fad  you  pick  up.  Pick  'em  all  up.  Only  don't 
force  'em  down  other  folks'  throats.  That's  what  I  could 
never  understand  in  women.  They  can  never  do  any 
thing  alone.  If  they  find  a  new  medicine,  they've  got  to 
make  some  one  else  try  it.  They  love  company  so  much 
that  they  want  to  carry  some  one  along-  to  the  other  side 
if  the  drug  happens  to  be  fatal.  That's  all  I  can  make 
out  of  it." 

"Sam,"  Mrs.  Busby's  voice  was  tremulously  earnest, 
"this  is  so  wonderful.  You  aren't  willing  to  let  me  help 
you  with  it  ?" 

"Am  I  needin'  help?"  His  sturdy  rotund  body  de 
flected  her  missionary  zeal  for  an  instant. 

"You  might  be  sick."  She  yearned  to  protect  his  un 
guarded  body  with  the  shining  wonderful  armor  she  had 
discovered.  She  could  not  be  happy  in  this  new  religion 
with  her  Sam  stalking  alone  outside  in  the  black  terrors 
of  the  night.  She  began  to  realize  why  religion  demands 
its  martyrs.  She  sighed  deeply. 

"What's  the  matter?    Feelin'  poorly?" 

"Oh,  no.    I'm  all  right.    It's  you." 


FEAR  109 

"Oh,  I'm  poorly,  am  I  ?  Well,  if  this  is  feelin'  poorly, 
I'd  be  afraid  to  feel  well.  Something  would  bust."  He 
shook  such  a  vigorous  repudiation  that  the  mares  took  it 
as  a  command,  and  several  miles  had  flown  past  before 
he  had  them  calmed. 

"Frightened?"  He  threw  the  word  over  his  shoulder 
to  a  disheveled  Maria  Busby,  clinging  to  her  bonnet. 
The  mares  were  still  quivering. 

Through  white  lips,  Mrs.  Busby  murmured  that  she 
was  all  right,  now! 

"What's  that  you  were  tryin'  to  tell  me  a  way  back?" 
he  asked  when  the  mares  had  settled  down  into  a  sober 
gait. 

"There's  no  such  thing  as  pain,"  began  Mrs.  Busby. 
She  must  always  begin  there.  It  was  the  initial  letter  of 
her  creed. 

"I  thought  you  said  something  about  not  having  fear  ?" 

"Oh,  I  knew  I  couldn't  explain  it  to  you,  you're  such  a 
mocker,  Sam  Busby.  But  I've  got  books  for  you  to  read. 
They'll  show  you." 

"It's  not  another  sort  of  Electropoise  ?"  grinned  her 
spouse.  "Do  you  remember,  Maria,  how  you  used  to 
have  me  sittin'  there,  one  end  of  that  infernal  machine 
in  a  pail  of  water,  the  other  tied  around  my  leg,  keep 
me  sittin'  like  a  fool  waitin'  for  currents.  Nary  a  cur 
rent,  or  a  raison  Paddy  would  say.  Holy  smoke!" 

She  held  up  a  solemn  finger.    "See  that?" 

"Anything  the  matter?    Another  felon?" 

"I  can  think  a  pain  in  that  finger." 

"Why  should  you  ?" 

His  levity  threw  her  argument  off  the  track.  She  had 
planned  a  physical,  scientific  proof.  How  by  taking 
thought,  she  could  gather  the  blood  at  a  stated  point; 


no  THE   RIVER 

how  congestion  would  inevitably  follow.  The  sequence 
evaded  her. 

"I  thought  there  was  no  such  thing  as  pain?" 

"Don't  try  to  trap  me.  Just  listen,  If  I  can  think  a 
pain  there,  why  can't  I  think  it  away?"  The  sequence 
came  to  her.  "See,  I  think  the  blood  to  the  tip  of  my 
finger.  It  congests.  There  is  inflammation ;  a  swellin'." 

"Does  it  hurt  much?"    She  saw  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"Of  course  not." 

The  two  drove  on  in  silence,  busy  with  the  thoughts 
which  must  divide  them.  Sam  decided  that  Maria  had 
parted  with  her  charm,  her  sense  of  fun.  And  then  he 
gave  himself  up  to  his  routine.  Baldwin's  alfalfa  was 
fine  this  spring.  If  the  railroad  could  handle  it,  what  a 
crop  of  melons  the  valley  would  harvest  that  year! 
There  was  a  stoppage  in  the  canal.  The  water  looked 
stagnant.  He  forgot  Maria. 

She  was  facing  a  noble  lonely  martyrdom.  This  truth 
which  was  being  revealed  to  her,  which  was  dawning 
above  her  sky  as  a  wonderful  shimmer  of  light,  she  must 
follow  where  it  led.  Sam's  obstinacy  would  keep  him 
out.  No,  they  would  not  bicker ;  she  was  above  that.  She 
never  quarreled  with  any  one.  It  must  be  a  closed  sub 
ject  between  them;  their  first  barrier.  She  felt  very 
righteous  and  holy.  He  stopped  at  their  house,  a  square 
pine  cottage,  built  by  jovial  Sam  Busby,  and  bossed  by 
Maria. 

As  he  was  driving  through  the  pine-board  gate,  he 
pulled  the  gray  mares  on  their  startled  haunches.  Real 
concern  was  in  his  honest  face. 

"Sure  nothing's  the  matter  with  that  finger,  Maria?" 

"Shucks!"  tossed  Maria  Busby. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  RIVALS 

FROM  the  window  of  the  adobe  office  building  of  the 
company,  Hardin  saw  Rickard  jump  from  the  rear 
platform  of  the  train  as  it  slowed  into  the  station.  He 
noticed  that  the  new  manager  carried  no  bag. 

"Wonder  what  he's  decided  to  do  about  the  head-gate. 
He  didn't  waste  much  time  out  there."  Hardin  was 
fidgeting  in  his  seat,  his  eyes  on  the  approaching  figure. 
His  desk  was  cluttered  with  untouched  papers ;  there  was 
a  report  to  be  made ;  Hardin  had  several  times  made  a 
great  show  of  getting  out  his  books,  sharpening  his  pen 
cils,  but  he  was  as  restless  as  a  girl  when  a  lover's  dec 
laration  lingers.  Marshall  had  held  up  the  gate — what 
did  Marshall  know  about  it,  he'd  like  to  know,  sitting  at 
his  office  desk  in  Tucson?  They  were  losing  valuable 
time.  He  wondered  what  Rickard  would  report  to  his 
chief;  he  vowed  to  himself  that  he  would  not  show  his 
eagerness  by  inquiring.  "Ask  him,  please  him  by  truck 
ling?  I'd  see  the  gate  rot  first." 

Rickard  passed  through  the  room,  nodding  to  his 
office  force.  The  door  of  the  inner  office  shut  behind 
him.  Hardin  stared  at  the  blank  surface.  He  moved 
restlessly  in  his  swivel  chair.  Did  the  fellow  think  a  big 
thing  like  that  could  hang  on  while  he  unpacked  his 
trunks  and  settled  his  bureau  drawers?  He  picked  up  a 

III 


H2  THE   RIVER 

pencil,  jabbing  at  the  paper  of  his  report.  He  covered 
the  sheet  with  figures — three  hundred — six  hundred.  Six 
hundred  feet.  Whose  fault  that  the  intake  had  widened, 
doubling  its  width,  trebling  its  problem?  Whose  but 
Marshall's,  who  had  sent  down  one  of  his  office  clerks  to 
see  what  Hardin  was  doing?  Wouldn't  any  man  in  his 
senses  know  that  the  way  Maitland  would  distinguish 
himself  would  be  by  discrediting  Hardin,  by  throwing 
bouquets  to  Marshall ;  praising  his  plan  ?  They  all  go 
at  it  the  same  sickening  way !  Office  clerks,  bah  !  Sure, 
Maitland  had  advised  against  the  completion  of  the  gate. 
Said  it  would  cost  more  in  time  and  money  than  Hardin's 
estimates.  "Thanks  to  Maitland  it  did,"  growled  Hardin, 
scrawling  figures  over  the  page.  "By  the  time  Maitland 
finished  monkeying  with  that  toy  dam  of  his  the  river  had 
widened  the  break  from  three  hundred  to  six  hundred 
feet.  For  that,  they  throw  mud  at  me.  Oh,  it  makes  me 
sick."  Hardin  flung  his  broken  pencil  out  of  the  window. 

Rickard  reentered  the  room.  The  question  leaped 
from  Hardin. 

"The  head-gate — are  you  going  on  with  it?" 

Rickard  looked  curiously  at  the  flushed  antagonistic 
face  of  the  man  he  had  supplanted.  The  thought  crossed 
his  mind  that  perhaps  Hardin  had  taken  to  drinking.  It 
|made  his  answer  curt. 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  don't  know !" 

"I  have  no  report  to  make,  Mr.  Hardin,  until  I  see  the 
gate." 

"And  you  went  to  the  Crossing  without  going  down 
,to  the  head-gate  ?"  Hardin  did  not  try  to  conceal  his  dis 
gust. 

"I  did  not  go  to  the  Crossing." 


THE    RIVALS  113 

"Didn't  go — !"  Hardin's  mouth  was  agape.  Then 
he  rudely  swiveled  his  chair.  The  door  slammed  behind 
Rickard. 

Hadn't  been  to  the  Crossing?  Then  where  in  Hades 
did  he  go  ?  "Truckling  to  MacLean !  Those  office  clerks ! 
I  know  them.  Jumping  for  favors  from  the  man  higher 
up."  He  ticked  off  on  his  fingers  the  days  the  new  man 
ager  had  already  squandered.  Saturday,  he  threw  in 
perversely  the  day  of  Rickard's  arrival,  Saturday,  Sun 
day,  he  loafed  all  day  Sunday,  Monday — and  this  was 
Wednesday.  What  could  a  man  find  in  the  valley  to  do 
if  he  didn't  rush  straight  to  the  gate?  The  gate  upon 
which  the  whole  valley  hung?  Gerty's  dinner  occurred 
to  him.  "He  never  intended  to  come,"  he  reflected  with 
satisfaction.  "He'll  have  to  be  starting  for  the  Heading 
to-morrow.  Already,  it's  a  farce,  five  days !" 

He  halted  MacLean  who  was  passing  him,  a  steno 
graphic  pad  under  his  arm,  a  battered  copy  of  Thorns 
and  Orange  Blossoms  in  his  hand.  He  was  cramming 
night  and  day,  requisitioning  the  good-natured  to  read 
aloud  at  a  snail's  pace.  He  had  found  the  novel  under 
Bodefeldt's  bureau  and  had  held  up  Pete  to  give  him  a 
page  of  dictation  from  the  classic. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  Crossing  to-morrow?"  Hardin 
knew  he  should  be  too  proud  to  betray  his  eagerness,  but 
the  words  ran  away  with  him. 

"Not  to-morrow.  Mr.  Rickard  just  told  me  he  might 
not  be  able  to  get  off  until  next  week." 

Hardin's  anger  sputtered.  "Next  week.  Why  does 
he  rush  so  ?  Why  doesn't  he  go  next  year  ?  The  Colorado's 
so  gentle,  it'd  wait  for  him,  I'm  sure.  Next  week!  It's 
a  put-up  job,  that's  what  it  is.  Oh,  I  can  see  through  a 
fence  with  a  knot-hole  as  big  as  your  head.  He  doesn't 


114  THE   RIVER 

want  to  finish"  the  head-gate.  He  wants  to  put  off  going 
until  it's  too  late  to  go  on  with  it;  I  know  him.  He'd 
risk  the  whole  thing,  and  all  the  money  the  O.  P.  has 
chucked  into  it,  just  to  start  with  a  clean  slate;  to  get 
the  glory  of  stopping  the  river  himself.  It  turns  my 
stomach ;  it's  a  plot."  The  lower  lip  shot  out. 

MacLean's  attention  was  deferential.  He  had  always 
liked  Hardin;  all  the  fellows  did.  But  he  was  jumping 
off  wrong  this  time.  He'd  brought  it  all  on  himself. 

"One  would  think  he'd  been  brought  up  in  a  convent, 
he  finds  the  valley  so  distracting.  Time  to  go  to  dinners. 
Sickening !" 

MacLean  did  not  understand  the  allusion. 

"He  said,"  MacLean  hesitated,  wondering  if  the  state 
ment  had  been  a  confidence.  But  Bodefeldt  had  been 
there.  "He  said  something  about  a  levee  for  the  towns. 
He's  got  to  investigate  that  before  he  goes  to  the  front." 

"A  levee?  Well,  wouldn't  that  jar  you?"  Hardin  ad 
dressed  the  stenographer  in  the  transparent  shirt-waist. 
"Does  he  think  we're  going  to  have  another  flood  this 
season  ?  Thinks  it's  going  to  reach  the  hotel  and  wet  his 
clothes?  Take  the  starch  out  of  his  shirts?"  He  flung 
out  of  his  chair,  throwing  the  papers  back  into  a  drawer. 

He  stamped  out  of  the  office,  mad  clear  through.  To 
this  crisis  they  had  sent  down  a  dandy,  a  bookman  who 
wanted  to  build  a  levee.  Oh,  hell !  He  laughed  out  his 
bitterness  aloud,  and  did  not  care  that  Coulter,  who  kept 
the  store,  and  two  gaily  dressed  squaws  turned  to  look 
after  him.  For  it  was  a  crisis,  and  the  O.  P.  was  making 
it  so.  They  should  have  learned  their  lesson  by  this  time. 
Trust  Maltlandf  And  now,  Rickard ! 

"They'll  come  crawling  after  me  to  help  them  after 
this  fellow's  buried  himself  under  river  mud,  come  call- 


THE    RIVALS  115 

ing  to  me  as  they  did  after  Maitland  failed.  Tlease,  Mr. 
Hardin,  won't  you  come  back  and  finish  your  gate !'  I'll 
see  them  dead  first.  No,  I'll  be  fool  enough  to  do  it.  I 
can't  help  myself.  I'm  a  Hardin.  I  have  to  finish  what 
I've  begun." 

It  was  not  because  this  was  a  pet  enterprise,  the  great 
work  of  his  life,  that  he  must  eagerly  eat  humble  pie, 
take  the  buffets,  the  falls,  and  come  whining  back  when 
they  whistled  to  him.  He  told  himself  that  it  was  be 
cause  of  his  debt  to  the  valley,  to  the  ranchers.  He  saw 
himself  sacrificing  everything  to  a  great  obligation.  "Who 
was  the  Bible  fellow  who  led  his  people  across  the  des 
ert?  I  must  polish  up  my  Bible,"  he  resolved.  He  re 
membered  that  he  had  not  opened  one  since  his  mother's 
death,  and  that  was  so  long  past  that  the  thought  brought 
no  physical  thrill. 

The  colonists  were  about  desperate.  Who  could  blame 
them?  The  last  year's  floods  had  worked  havoc  with 
their  crops ;  this  year  had  been  a  horror.  The  district 
they  called  Number  Six  was  a  screaming  irony  of  ruin. 
The  last  debauch  of  the  river  had  made  great  gashes 
through  the  ranches,  had  scoured  deep  gorges  which  had 
undermined  the  canals  on  which  the  water  supply  for 
Number  Six  depended.  The  suits  were  piling  up  against 
the  D.  R.,  damage  suits,  and  they  hold  up  his  gate, 
while  he  gets  the  curses  of  the  valley.  And  Mr.  Rick- 
ard  thinks  he'll  build  a  levee ! 

Hardin  was  in  the  mood  to  fancy  slights.  He  was 
convinced  that  Petrie  went  back  into  the  bank  to  avoid 
him.  Two  ranchers,  Hollister  and  Wilson,  from  the 
Palo  Verde,  busy  with  their  teams,  did  not  return  his 
halloo.  The  ranchers  hated  him.  "That's  what  you  get 
for  crucifying  yourself." 


n6  THE    RIVER 

He  flung  himself  on  the  couch  in  the  tent.  Gerty  was 
laying  a  careful  cloth  for  supper.  A  brave  determined 
smile  was  arranged  on  her  lips.  The  noon  storm  had 
passed.  She  hummed  a  gay  little  tune.  If  there  was 
anything  Hardin  hated,  it  was  humming. 

"You'll  have  your  dude  to  dinner  all  right/'  her 
husband  announced.  ''He's  in  town." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  rejoined  his  spouse.  "I  had  a  letter 
from  him  yesterday.  From  Imperial." 

Tom  sat  up  glaring.  "He  wrote  to  you  from  Im 
perial?" 

His  wife  misplaced  the  accent.  She  misunderstood 
Tom's  scowl.  It  was  the  old  story  over  again.  When 
ever  those  two  men  came  together,  the  old  feeling  of 
jealousy  must  be  revived  again!  It  was  unpleasant,  of 
course,  very  unpleasant  to  have  men  care  like  that,  but  it 
made  life  exciting.  Life  had  been  getting  a  little  stale 
lately;  like  a  book  of  obvious  even  plot.  Rickard's 
entrance  into  the  story  gave  a  new  interest,  a  new  twist. 
She  hummed  an  air  from  a  new  opera  that  had  set  the 
world  waltzing. 

Hardin's  thoughts  did  not  touch  her  at  the  hem.  He 
was  at  the  head-gate,  his  gate.  What  the  deuce  had 
Rickard  gone  to  Imperial  for?  If  he  wasn't  the  darndest 
ass !  Imperial !  And  tHe  gate  hung  up ! 

"For  God's  sake  stop  that  buzzing !" 

The  happy  little  noise  was  quenched.  Inncs,  entering 
at  that  moment,  heard  the  rough  order.  She  looked  im 
ploringly  at  her  sister-in-law. 

"Supper's  on  the  table,"  cried  Gerty,  the  fixed  de 
termined  smile  still  on  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  DESERT  DINNER 

• 

INNES  HARDIN  was  completing  her  simple  toilet. 
Not  even  to  please  Gerty  would  she  "dress  up"  for 
this  dinner!  It  would  have  been  easy  for  her  sister-in- 
law  to  postpone  it.  How  could  she  expect  Tom  to  go 
through  with  it !  She  couldn't  understand  Gerty ! 

An  hour  ago,  hearing  distinctly  the  whir  and  splash  of 
egg-beating,  she  had  run  over  to  the  neighboring  tent. 
The  clinking  of  cake-tins  had  suddenly  silenced.  "Ex* 
cuse  me,  won't  you  ?"  Gerty's  voice  had  come  from  the 
lean-to,  the  little  kitchen  shed.  "I'm  lying  down." 

"Lieing,  yes !"  grimaced  the  Hardin  mouth  to  its  re 
flection  in  the  mirror.  How  many  times  that  week  had 
she  been  repulsed  by  a  locked  door,  a  sudden  curtain  of 
silence,  or  a  "Run  away  for  a  while.  I'm  trying  to  catch 
a  nap."  Easy  now  to  see  why  Gerty  had  wanted  to  "hold 
the  reins"  that  week ! 

She  didn't  need  to  pierce  those  canvas  walls  to  know 
that  there  had  been  feverish  activity  for  this  dinner.  A 
new  gown  would  appear  to-night,  made  secretly.  An 
exquisite  meal,  and  no  one  must  comment  on  its  elabora 
tion.  Twice  Tom  and  she  had  been  asked  to  take  their 
lunch  at  the  hotel.  "Because  of  a  headache !"  A  head 
ache  ! 

Tom's  wife  could  not  even  shop  openly !  Bundles  had 

117 


Ii8  THE    RIVER 

always  the  air  of  mystery,  never  opened  before  Tom  or 
herself.  She  must  have  yards  of  stuff  laid  away,  kept 
for  sudden  emergencies. 

"She  can't  help  it.  It's  her  disposition.  She  can't  help 
being  secretive.  Look  at  your  face,  Innes  Hardin !" 
What  was  it  to  her,  the  pettiness  of  a  woman  whom  an 
accident  of  life  had  swept  upon  the  beach  beside  her? 
Gerty  was  not  her  kind,  not  the  sort  she  would  pick  out 
for  a  friend.  She  was  an  oriental,  one  of  the  harem 
women,  whose  business  it  is  in  life  to  please  one  man, 
keep  his  home  soft,  his  comforts  ready,  keep  him  con 
vinced,  moreover,  that  it  is  the  desire  of  his  life  to  sup 
port  her.  Herself  dissatisfied,  often  rebellious,  staying 
by  him  for  self-interest,  not  for  love — ah,  that  was  her 
impeachment.  "Not  loving !" 

Soberly,  she  covered  her  plain  brassiere  with  a  white 
waist  of  cotton  ducking.  A  red  leather  belt  and  crimson 
tie  she  added  self-consciously.  "Where  is  my  bloodstone 
pin?" 

Hadn't  she  spent  an  hour  at  least  matching  that  par 
ticular  leather  belt?  But  he  was  a  man,  in  battle.  The 
head-gate  held  up;  it  was  too  bad.  Silent,  Bodefeldt, 
Wooster,  Grant,  all  of  them  fighting  mad  because  of  the 
deadlock  at  the  Heading.  All  up  in  arms,  at  last,  against 
Marshall,  because  of  this  cruel  cut  to  their  hero,  Hardin. 
Her  eyes  glowed  like  yellow  lamps,  as  she  recalled  their 
fervid  partisanship. 

"Only  one  man  who  can  save  the  valley,  and  that's 
Tom  Hardin."  Wooster  had  said  that ;  but  they  all  be 
lieved  it.  The  loyalty  of  the  force  made  her  ashamed  of 
her  soft  woman  fears.  For  there  were  times  when  she 
questioned  her  brother's  executive  ability.  He  had  a 


A   DESERT    DINNER  119 

large  loose  way  of  handling  things.  He  was  too  opti 
mistic..-  But  tlioselrien,  those  engineers  must  know.  It 
was  probably  the  man's  way  of  sweeping  ahead,  ignoring 
detail.  The  verdict  of  those  field-tried  men  told  her  that 
the  other,  the  careful  planning  way,  was  the  office 
method.  Rickard,  as  a  dinner  neighbor,  she  had  found 
interesting ;  but  for  great  undertakings,  a  man  who  would 
let  a  Gerty  Holmes  jilt  him,  ruin  his  life  for  him!  The 
whole  story  sprang  at  last  clear,  from  the  dropped  in- 
nuendos. 

She  adjusted  a  barrette  in  her  smoothly  brushed  hair. 
Slowly,  she  walked  over  to  the  neighboring  tent. 

Gerty  frowned  at  the  white  duck.  "You  might  at  least 
have  worn  your  blue !" 

"You're  elegant  enough  for  the  two  of  us.  Isn't  that 
something  new  ?" 

Gerty  said  carelessly  that  she  had  had  it  for  a  long 
time.  For  she  had  had  the  material  a  long  time!  It 
wasn't  necessary  to  explain  to  her  husband's  sister  that 
it  had  been  made  up  that  week.  She  hoped  that  she 
didn't  look  "fussed-up."  Would  Mr.  Rickard  think  she 
was  attaching  any  importance  to  the  simple  little  visit? 
For  it  was  nothing  to  him,  of  course.  A  man  of  his 
standing,  whom  the  great  Tod  Marshall  ranked  so  high, 
probably  dined  out  several  times  each  week,  with  white- 
capped  maids  and  candelabra!  If  Tom  had  only  made 
the  most  of  his  opportunities.  What  a  gamble,  life  to  a 
woman ! 

She  made  a  trip  into  her  bedroom  and  took  a  reassur 
ing  survey  in  her  mirror.  The  lingerie  frock  would 
look  simple  to  a  man  who  would  never  suspect  it  of  hand 
made  duplicity.  Her  glass  declared  the  hand-whipped 


120  THE    RIVER 

medallions  casual  and  elegant.  And  a  long  time  ago,  a 
lifetime  ago,  Rickard  had  told  her  that  she  always  should 
wear  blue,  because  of  her  eyes. 

Innes  from  the  next  room  could  hear  Gerty  teasing 
Tom  to  wear  his  Tuxedo. 

"Isn't  one  dude  enough  for  you?"  growled  her  surly 
lord.  Innes  recognized  the  mood,  and  shrank  from  the 
ordeal  ahead.  It  was  the  mood  of  the  Hardin  in  the 
rough,  the  son  of  his  frontier  mother,  the  fruit  of  old 
Jasper  Gingg,  whose  smithy  had  been  the  rendezvous 
for  the  wildest  roughs,  the  fiercest  cattlemen  in  Missouri. 

"I'd  let  him  see  you  know  what's  what,  even  if  we  do 
live  like  gipsies." 

The  answer  to  that  was  another  growl.  Innes  could 
hear  him  dragging  out  the  process,  grumbling  over  each 
detail.  That  confounded  laundry  had  torn  his  shirt.  He 
hadn't  a  decent  collar  to  his  name.  Where  was  his  black 
string  tie?  If  Gert  would  keep  his  things  in  the  lowest 
drawer!  Hang  that  button!  Gerty  emerged  from  the 
encounter,  her  face  very  red.  Innes  could  see  her  biting 
her  lips  to  keep  the  tears  back  as  she  put  the  last  touches 
to  the  table. 

"She's  tired  out,"  thought  the  sister  of  Tom  Hardin. 
"She's  probably  fussed  herself  to  death  over  this  dinner." 

A  few  minutes  later  Rickard  arrived  in  a  sack  suit  of 
tweeds.  Gerty's  greeting  was  a  little  abstracted.  How 
could  she  make  Innes  understand  to  tell  Tom  to  change 
his  coat  ?  The  duty  of  a  host,  she  suddenly  remembered, 
was  to  dress  down  rather  than  up,  to  the  chances  of  his 
guest.  She  regretted  bitterly  her  insistence.  Was  ever 
any  one  so  obtuse  as  Innes  ?  Mr.  Rickard  would  see  that 
they  thought  it  a  big  event.  She  was  watching  the  cur 
tain  where  Tom  would  emerge.  And  his  coat  was  a  style 


A   DESERT   DINNER  121 

of  several  seasons  ago  and  absurdly  tight !  She  made  an 
unintelligible  excuse,  and  darted  behind  the  portiere. 

Tom's  face  was  apoplectic.  He  was  wrestling  with  a 
mussed  tie ;  the  collar  showed  a  desperate  struggle. 

Gerty  made  wild  signals  for  him  to  change  his  clothes. 
She  waved  a  hand  indicating  Rickard;  she  pointed  to 
Tom's  sack  suit  lying  on  the  floor  where  he  had  walked 
out  of  it. 

"What  is  it  all  about  ?" 

"Ssh,"  whispered  his  wife.     Again  the  wild  gestures. 

"Well,  aren't  you  satisfied?    Don't  I  look  like  a  guy?" 

He  could  be  heard  distinctly  in  the  next  room.  Gerty 
gave  it  up  in  despair.  She  dabbed  some  more  powder 
on  her  nose,  and  went  out  looking  like  a  martyr ;  a  very 
pretty  martyr ! 

Rickard  praised  the  miracles  of  the  tent.  Gerty's  soft 
flush  reminded  Innes  of  their  old  relation.  "Exit  Innes," 
she  was  thinking,  when  Tom,  red  and  perspiring,  brought 
another  element  of  discomfort  into  the  room. 

Gerty  ushered  them  immediately  to  the  table.  She 
covered  the  first  minutes  which  might  be  awkward  with 
her  small  chatter.  Somewhere  she  had  read  that  it  was 
not  well  to  make  apologies  for  lack  of  maid  or  fare.  Be 
sides,  Mr.  Rickard  remembered  Lawrence !  That  dreadful 
dining-room,  the  ever-set  table!  How  she  had  hated  it, 
though  she  had  not  known  how  fearful  it  was  until  she 
had  escaped. 

"We  are  simple  folk  here,  Mr.  Rickard,"  she  an 
nounced,  as  they  took  their  places  around  the  pretty  table. 
That  was  her  only  allusion  to  deficiencies,  but  it  covered 
her  noiseless  movements  around  the  board  between 
courses,  filled  up  the  gaps  when  she  made  necessary  dives 
into  kitchen  or  primitive  ice-chest,  and  set  the  key  for 


122  THE   RIVER 

the  homeliness  of  the  meal  itself.  The  dinner  was  a 
triumph  of  apparent  simplicity.  Only  Innes  could  guess 
the  time  consumed  in  the  perfection  of  detail,  details 
dear  to  the  hostess'  heart.  The  almonds  she  had  blanched, 
of  course,  herself;  had  dipped  and  salted  them.  The 
cheese-straws  were  her  own.  She  did  not  make  the  mis 
take  of  stringing  out  endless  courses.  An  improvised 
buffet  near  at  hand  made  the  serving  a  triumph. 

Rickard  praised  each  dish ;  openly  he  was  admiring  her 
achievement.  Innes,  remembering  the  story  Gerty  had 
told  her  in  dots  and  dashes,  the  story  of  the  old  rivalry, 
glanced  covertly  at  Tom  sulking  at  the  head  of  his  own 
table. 

"Poor  sulky  Achilles,"  she  thought.  "Dear,  honest  old 
bear!" 

"Innes!"  cried  Mrs.  Hardin. 

She  turned  to  find  that  the  guest  was  staring  at  her. 
She  had  not  heard  his  effort  to  include  her  in  the  con 
versation. 

"Mr.  Rickard  asked  you  if  you  like  it  here  ?" 
"Thank  you,  why,  of  course!"     Her  answer  sounded 
pert  to  herself. 

Her  sister-in-law  hastened  to  add  that  Miss  Hardin 
was  very  lonely,  was  really  all  alone  in  the  world ;  that 
they  insisted  on  her  making  her  home  with  them. 

Innes  had  with  difficulty  restrained  a  denial.  After 
all,  what  other  home  had  she?  Still  the  truth  had  been 
deflected.  She  recalled  the  sacrifice  it  had  been  to  cut 
her  college  course  in  order  to  make  a  home  in  the  desert 
for  the  brother  who  had  always  so  gently  fathered  her, 
who  had  helped  her  invest  her  small  capital  that  it  might 
spell  a  small  income.  She  recalled  his  resistance  when 
she  had  called  in  a  mortgage ;  who  could  watch  that  mad 


A   DESERT   DINNER  123 

scapegoat  of  a  river  playing  pranks  with  desert  homes, 
and  not  yearn  to  help  ?  Not  a  Hardin.  She  still  gloried 
in  remembering  that  she  had  at  least  driven  one  pile  into 
that  rebellious  stream,  even  if  when  she  left  the  valley  it 
would  be  as  a  breadwinner.  She  was  prepared.  She  was 
a  good  draftsman;  she  would  go  as  an  apprentice  in 
an  architect's  office.  She  had  already  settled  on  the 
architect ! 

"Are  you  going  to  Los  Angeles  again  soon?"  She 
heard  the  new  manager  address  his  host. 

"I'm  taking  orders !" 

There  was  another  awkward  moment  when  Hardin 
pushed  back  his  plate  declaring  he  had  reached  his  limit ; 
it  was  too  big  a  spread  for  him !  It  was  the  stupid  rude 
ness  of  the  small  bad  boy;  even  Innes  flushed  for  her 
sister-in-law. 

With  resolution,  Gerty  assumed  control  of  the  conver 
sation.  Her  role  sounded  casual ;  no  one  could  have  sus 
pected  it  of  frequent  rehearsal.  They  must  not  talk  of 
the  river;  that  was  taboo.  Railroad  matters  were  also 
excluded.  Equally  difficult  would  be  reminiscences  of 
Lawrence  days.  So  she  began  brightly  with  a  current 
book.  Had  Mr.  Rickard  read  The  Home  of  Joy  that 
every  one  was  discussing?  Rickard  confessed  he  was  a 
barbarian ;  he  had  not  read  a  book  that  was  not  on  engi 
neering  for  many  a  month.  He  had  read  a  review  or 
two,  and  several  minutes  were  contributed  to  a  discus 
sion  of  the  problem  it  covered.  The  theater  proved  a 
safe  topic,  and  by  that  natural  route,  they  reached  New 
York.  Innes,  who  had  never  been  farther  East  than 
Chicago,  was  grateful  to  play  audience.  Hardin,  who 
knew  his  New  York  perhaps  better  than  either,  refused 
to  be  drawn  into  the  gentle  stream.  Gerty  skimmed 


124  THE    RIVER 

easily  the  cream  of  modern  issues;  she  read  her  news 
paper  religiously  each  morning;  they  talked  of  popular 
movements.  There  had  been  a  demonstration  in  the 
streets  of  London,  rock-throwing  mobs  of  suffragettes 
the  week  before. 

"Surely,  they  proved  their  equality,"  observed  Casey 
Rickard.  Innes  was  angry  with  herself  for  smiling. 

"What  about  their  right?"  She  wanted  to  urge  the 
right  of  the  wage-earners,  the  taxpayers.  Taxation  with 
out  representation,  but  she  heard  her  chance  pass  by. 
Gerty  had  danced  on  to  another  topic. 

Things  must  be  kept  sprightly.  Had  Mr.  Rickard  met 
many  of  the  valley  people?  And  it  was  then  that  she 
threw  her  bomb  toward  the  listening  silent  Hardins.  She 
would  like  Mr.  Rickard  to  meet  some  of  their  friends. 

He  said  that  he  would  be  delighted,  but  that  he  was 
planning  to  leave  shortly  for  the  Heading. 

"Of  course."  She  did  not  give  her  husband  time  to 
speak.  She  meant  afterward!  She  was  planning  to 
give  something,  a  bit  novel,  in  his  honor.  She  refused  to 
see  the  glare  from  the  angry  man  in  his  outgrown  din 
ner  coat.  She  did  not  glance  toward  the  sister.  What 
did  Mr.  Rickard  think  about  a  progressive  ride? 

"It  sounds  very  entertaining,  but  what  do  you  do?" 

There  was  a  loud  guffaw  from  Tom.  With  deepened 
color,  Gerty  told  her  idea.  A  drive,  changing  partners, 
so  he  could  meet  all  the  guests.  There  was  such  a  hand 
some  girl  in  the  valley,  a  Miss  Morton.  Visiting  her 
brother,  young  Morton,  of  Philadelphia,  the  Mortons. 
His  father  a  millionaire,  himself  a  Harvard  graduate, 
and  he  was  running  a  melon  ranch  in  the  desert !  There 
were  the  Youngbergs ;  Mr.  Youngberg,  the  manager  of 
the  great  ABC  ranch,  which  belongs  to  Senator 


A   DESERT    DINNER  125 

Graves,  you  know  ?  Mrs.  Youngberg,  the  senator's  own 
niece.  And  the  Blinns,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blinn,  not  quite 
the  same  class  of  people,  but  so  jolly  and  entertaining. 
Mr.  Blinn  makes  you  scream !  And  young  Sutcliffe,  the 
English  ganjerjva  remittance  man,  of  course.  Englished, 
the  word  wasn't  so  pretty ;  it  meant  ditch-tender. 

"And  the  Wilson  girls.  I  was  forgetting  about  them. 
They  are  with  their  brother,  who  owns  one  of  the  big 
ranches  here.  He  is  picking  grapes,  think  of  it,  off  vines 
not  four  years  old." 

"Yes,  it  is  a  wonderful  land,"  agreed  her  guest. 

"I  think  it  will  surprise  you  to  find  so  many  nice  people 
in  here ;  it  certainly  did  me.  One  doesn't  expect  to  find 
congenial  people  in  a  new  country  like  this.  They  say 
it  is  the  quick  rewards  which  attract  ambitious  men.  Why, 
how  much  was  it  Jones  cleared  off  his  place  last  year, 
Tom  ?  He  was  sending  tomatoes  east  in  February,  grown 
in  the  open.  This  is  really  a  huge  forcing  bed,  isn't  it? 
I've  heard  it  said,  too,  that  there  is  an  intellectual  stimu 
lus  which  attracts  one  class,  and  develops  the  other.  Do 
you  agree  with  that,  Mr.  Rickard?" 

Just  like  the  sparrow,  darting  from  bough  to  bough! 
He  answered,  gravely,  that  they  certainly  used  a  diction 
ary  of  their  own !  He  had  been  to  a  meeting  of  the 
water  companies,  up  at  Imperial  the  other  day.  He 
turned  to  his  host.  "The  fluency  of  some  of  those  men 
surprised  me !" 

"We're  not  all  dubs!"  gruffed  Hardin. 

Gerty  swept  up  her  ruffles ;  her  laugh  sounded  hard 
instead  of  gay.  It  was  a  kindness  for  a  newcomer  to 
bring  in  a  breath  of  fresh  air  from  the  outside.  They  did 
get  stale,  they  couldn't  help  it. 

Rickard  remembered  that  he  had  to  get  back  to  his 


126  THE   RIVER 

hotel.  He  had  letters  to  write.  It  had  been  a  splendid 
dinner !  And  what  a  wonderful  home  she  had  made  out 
of  a  sand-baked  lot,  out  of  a  tent !  He  spoke  of  the  roses 
and  the  morning-glories.  His  eyes  fell  on  the  open  piano, 
the  reading  table  with  the  current  magazines.  Now,  he 
couldn't  understand  why  they  ever  went  to  that  hotel ! 

Gerty's  eyes  were  shining  as  deep  pools  of  water  on 
which  the  sun  plays.  She  looked  almost  infantile  as  she 
stood  by  the  two  tall  men,  her  head  perched  bird-like. 
"Good-by!  and  I  hope  you'll  come  again!" 

Of  course  he'd  come  again ! 

"And  you  will  let  me  know  when  you  return,  so  that  I 
may  set  the  date  for  my  party  ?" 

Innes  did  not  get  his  answer.  She  had  been  observing 
that  he  was  not  taller  than  her  brother.  He  looked  taller. 
He  was  lean,  and  Tom  was  growing  stocky.  She  wished 
he  would  not  slouch  so,  his  hands  in  his  pockets !  In 
Tucson,  before  she  knew  that  she  must  dislike  Rickard, 
she  had  had  an  impression  of  virile  distinction,  of  grace, 
a  suggestion  of  mastered  muscles.  He  had  known  that 
it  was  her  brother  he  was  supplanting — did  he  get  any 
satisfaction  from  the  fact  that  it  was  the  husband  of  the 
woman  who  had  jilted  him?  Anyway,  she  did  not  like 
him.  She  could  never  forgive  a  hurt  that  was  done  to 
her  own.  She  was  a  Hardin. 

"Innes!     Mr.  Rickard  said  good  night!" 

She  gave  him  the  tips  of  her  cool  browned  fingers. 
Her  eyes  did  not  meet  his;  she  would  not  meet  that 
laughing  scrutiny. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Rickard." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  FIGHTING   CHANCE 

"CASEY'S  back;  spying!"  announced  Wooster  at 
V^  mess  one  evening.  By  that  time,  the  feeling  against 
"Marshall's  man"  was  actively  hostile.  There  had 
been  a  smudge  of  slumbering  fires  before  Rickard  had 
left  the  towns.  Fanned  by  much  talk  during  his  ab 
sence,  it  had  burst  into  active  blaze.  They  were  ready 
to  show  their  resentment  against  the  man  who  had  sup 
planted  Hardin,  their  Napoleon,  if  it  cost  them  their 
places.  By  this  time  the  cause  of  the  desert  was  as  com 
pelling  to  these  hardy  soldiers  as  were  the  lily  banners 
of  France  to  the  followers  of  the  Little  Corporal. 

Rickard  was  not  expected.  He  had  been  gone  less  than 
a  week.  The  effect  of  his  return  was  that  of  a  person 
who  returns  suddenly  into  a  room,  hushing  an  active  babel 
of  tongues.  He  knew  what  he  would  find,  ample  rea 
sons  why !  He  was  not  given  the  satisfaction  of  locating 
any  particular  act  of  disobedience.  The  men  presented 
a  blank  wall  of  politeness,  reasonable  and  ineffectual. 
Silent  explained,  briefly,  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  col 
lect  enough  men.  Most  of  the  force  was  busy  in  the 
Number  Six  District,  trying  to  push  the  shattered  Wis 
taria  through  by  a  new  route  before  that  year's  crops 
were  entirely  ruined.  A  gang  was  at  Grant's  Heading; 
the  floor  needed  bracing.  Another  squad,  Irish's,  was  in 

127 


128  THE   RIVER 

the  Volcano  Lake  Region,  where  they  were  excavating 
for  the  new  head-gate. 

"No  hurry  for  that."  Rickard  was  glad  to  pick  a  flaw 
in  such  a  perfect  pattern.  "You  might  have  withdrawn 
those  men,  and  put  them  to  work  on  the  levee." 

"I  was  given  no  authority  to  do  that." 

The  chief  pretended  to  accept  the  reason ;  else  it  were 
a  case  of  changing  horses  in  mid-stream.  What  he  had 
seen  at  the  Heading,  his  peep  at  the  exposed  valley,  his 
gleaning  of  the  river's  history  had  convinced  him  that 
in  haste  and  concentration  lay  the  valley's  only  chance. 
He  must  refuse  to  see  the  insubordination  of  the  engi 
neers,  the  seasoned  desert  soldiers.  He  needed  them, 
must  win  their  confidence  if  he  could.  If  not,  they  must 
save  the  valley,  anyway!  The  imperturbable  front  of 
Silent,  his  bland  big  stare,  exasperated  him ;  easier/  to 
control  the  snapping  terrier  of  a  Wooster.  He  had  told 
Silent  distinctly  to  gather  his  men  and  rush  the  levee.  A 
good  soldier  had  made  a  better  guess  than  his,  and  had 
stopped  the  casual  work  at  Black  Butte,  or  had  found 
Indians!  Thoughtfully,  Rickard  followed  that  last  sug 
gestion  across  the  ditch  into  Mexicali. 

He  gathered  all  the  recruits  he  needed  that  morning. 
The  Indians,  lazy  Cocopahs,  crept  out  of  their  huts  to 
earn  a  few  of  the  silver  dollars  held  out  to  them  by  the 
new  white  boss.  A  few  Mexican  laborers  were  bribed 
to  toss  up  earth  to  the  west  of  the  town.  Estrada,  at  his 
request,  put  a  squad  of  his  road  force  at  the  service  of 
the  manager.  He  could  not  spare  many  men. 

The  railroad  had  already  started  the  line  projected  by 
Hardin  to  Marshall  the  year  before,  a  spur  across  the 
desert,  dipping  into  Mexico  between  the  lean  restless 
sand-hills,  from  Calexico  to  Yuma.  The  Mexican  govern- 


THE    FIGHTING   CHANCE  129 

ment  had  agreed  to  pay  five  thousand  dollars  a  mile  were 
the  road  completed  at  a  certain  period.  Estrada  was 
keeping  his  men  on  the  jump  to  fill  the  contract,  to  make 
his  nation  pay  the  price.  The  completion  of  the  road 
meant  help  to  the  valley ;  supplies,  men,  could  be  rushed 
through  to  the  break. 

In  spite  of  his  haunting  sense  of  ultimate  failure,  the 
growing  belief  in  the  omnipotence  of  the  Great  Yellow 
Dragon  as  the  Cocopahs  visualized  it,  Estrada's  work 
was  as  intense  as  though  he  were  hastening  a  sure  vic 
tory.  The  dauntless  spirit  of  the  elder  Estrada  pushed 
the  track  over  the  hot  sands  where  he  must  dance  at 
times  to  keep  his  feet  from  burning.  Many  of  the  rails 
they  laid  at  night. 

"Hog-wild !"  exclaimed  Hardin  when  he  saw  the  levee 
for  the  first  time.  "Gone  hog-wild."  To  him,  the  grow 
ing  ridge  of  fine  earth,  like  a  soft  heap  of  pulverized 
chocolate,  was  an  absurd  proof  of  misdirected  energy. 
He  walked  down  with  Silent  after  dark  to  the  gorge  the 
river  had  cut  on  its  last  wild  debauch,  and  stood  on  the 
newly  upturned  mound  of  earth.  There  was  no  water 
running  now  in  the  flood  channel ;  it  was  a  deep  dry  scar. 

"It  would  be  a  good  idea  if  it  were  necessary.  It  can 
do  no  harm.'* 

"Do  no  harm,  and  the  gate  hung  up!  He  makes  me 
sick.  We've  had  all  the  floods  coming  to  us  this  twenty 
years.  He's  locking  the  barn  after  the  horse  is  gone." 

The  calm  beauty  of  that  desert  night  was  wasted  on 
the  man  whose  life,  he  told  himself,  had  been  dishonored. 
He  did  not  smell  the  pungent  breath,  the  damp  moist 
sweetness  of  the  newly  turned  earth ;  did  not  see  the  star- 
pricked  canopy  spreading  out  toward  illimitable  horizons. 
The  moon  trailed  its  cold  pale  light  across  the  sky,  but 


130  THE   RIVER 

Hardin  could  not  see.  His  view  was  a  world  of  his  mak 
ing,  a  country  peopled  by  his  energy,  the  people  who  had 
turned  him  down.  The  eyes  that  were  looking  at  the 
levee  were  no  longer  seeing  another  man's  folly;  they 
were  visualizing  his  head-gate,  the  gate  that  meant  safety 
to  the  valley,  the  gate  he  was  not  allowed  to  complete. 
He  was  living  over  again,  step  by  step,  the  chain  of 
events  that  led  to  this  exasperating  deadlock;  himself, 
incapacitated,  helpless,  seeing  the  thing  which  should  be 
done,  powerless  to  do  it.  The  men  who  might  win, 
petty  enough  to  let  the  wish  to  put  him  in  the  wrong 
override  the  big  opportunity  to  save  the  valley!  He 
wondered  again  why  he  had  not  the  sense  to  get  out. 

"And  kick  the  whole  bucket  over,"  he  grumbled.  "I 
would,  too,  if  I  had  the  sense  I  was  born  with.  Get  out, 
and  begin  over  again  somewhere.  Not  stay  for  more 
kicks.  They'd  find  they'd  be  wanting  me  back  again.  I 
will  get  out.  Fll  not  stay  a  month  longer." 

"Rickard's  gone  hog-wild,"  he  told  his  family  the  next 
morning.  "Building  a  levee  between  the  towns!  The 
man's  off  his  head." 

"There  really  isn't  any  danger  ?"  Gerty's  anxiety  made 
the  deep  blue  eyes  look  black. 

Innes  looked  up  for  Tom's  answer.  His  face  was  ugly 
with  passion. 

"Danger!  It's  a  bluff,  a  big  show  of  activity  here, 
because  he's  buffaloed ;  he  doesn't  know  how  to  tackle 
the  job  out  there." 

It  had  begun  to  look  that  way  to  more  than  one.  It  was 
talked  over  at  Coulter's  store ;  in  the  outer  office  of  the 
D.  R.  Company  where  the  engineers  foregathered ;  among 
the  chair-tilters  who  idled  in  front  of  the  Desert  Hotel. 


THE    FIGHTING    CHANCE  131 

"The  man  does  not  know  how  to  tackle  his  job !"  A  levee, 
and  the  gate  held  up!  What  protection  to  the  towns 
would  be  that  toy  levee  if  the  river  should  return  on  one 
of  its  spectacular  sprees?  A  levee,  and  the  intake  itself 
not  guarded  ?  He  was  whispered  of  as  an  incompetent ; 
one  of  Marshall's  clerks.  He  was  given  a  short  time  to 
blow  himself  out.  A  bookman,  a  theorist. 

"As  well  put  sentinels  a  few  miles  from  prison,  and 
leave  the  jail  doors  open !"  This  was  Wooster's  gibe.  All 
saw  the  Colorado  as  a  marauder  at  large.  "And  a  little 
heap  of  sand  stacked  up  to  scare  it  off !  It's  a  scream !" 

Mrs.  Hardin  found  it  difficult  to  meet  with  diplomacy 
the  confidences  which  inevitably  came  her  way.  As 
Hardin's  wife,  she  was  expected  to  enjoy  the  universal 
censure  the  new  man  was  acquiring.  Gerty's  light 
touches,  too  slight  for  championship,  passed  as  a  sweet 
charity.  Her  own  position  those  days  was  trying.  She 
did  not  yet  know  her  diplomatic  lesson. 

Apparently  unaware  of  the  talk,  Rickard  spent  the 
greater  part  of  his  time  superintending  the  levee.  He 
could  trust  no  one  else  to  do  it,  no  one  unless  it  were 
Estrada,  who  was  rushing  his  steel  rails  through  to  the 
front,  and  was  needed  there. 

Things  were  moving  under  his  constant  goading.  The 
extra  pay  was  showing  results.  He  should  be  at  the 
Heading  now,  he  kept  telling  himself,  but  he  was  con 
vinced  that  the  instant  he  turned  his  back,  the  work  on 
the  levee  would  stop  ;  and  all  the  reasons  excellent !  Some 
emergency  would  be  cooked  up  to  warrant  the  withdrawal 
of  the  hands.  Chafe  as  he  might  at  the  situation,  it  was 
to  be  guerrilla  warfare.  Not  a  fight  in  the  open,  he 
knew  how  to  meet  that,  but  this  baffling  resistance,  the 


132  THE   RIVER 

polite  silence  of  the  office  when  he  entered, — "Well, 
they'll  be  doing  my  way  pretty  soon,  or  my  name  isn't 
Rickard.  That's  flat." 

He  was  fretting  to  be  at  work,  to  start  the  wheels  of 
the  O.  P.,  its  vast  machinery  toward  his  problem.  He 
knew  that  that  organization,  like  well-drilled  militia,  was 
ready  for  his  call.  The  call  lagged,  not  that  he  did  not 
need  men,  but  there  was  no  place  ready  for  them.  The 
camp,  that  was  another  rub.  There  was  no  camp!  It 
was  not  equipped  for  a  sudden  inflation  of  men.  The 
inefficiency  of  the  projectors  of  this  desert  scheme  had 
never  seemed  so  criminal  as  when  he  had  surveyed  the 
equipment  at  the  intake.  "Get  ready  first;  your  tools, 
your  stoves,  your  beds."  That  was  the  training  of  the 
good  executive,  of  men  like  Marshall  and  MacLean. 
Nothing  to  be  left  to  chance ;  to  foresee  emergencies,  not 
to  be  taken  by  them  unaware.  The  reason  of  Hardin's 
downfall  was  his  slipshod  habits.  How  could  he  be  a  good 
officer  who  had  never  drilled  as  a  soldier?  There  was 
the  gap  at  the  intake,  Hardin's  grotesque  folly,  widened 
from  one  hundred  feet  to  ten  times  the  original  cut; 
widening  every  day,  with  neither  equipment  nor  camp 
adequate  to  push  through  a  work  of  half  the  original 
magnitude.  Cutting  away,  moreover,  was  the  island, 
Disaster  Island;  it  had  received  apt  christening  by  the 
engineers,  its  baptismal  water  the  Colorado.  The  last 
floods  had  played  with  it  as  though  it  were  a  bar  of 
sugar.  There  was  no  rock  at  hand ;  no  rock  on  the  way, 
no  rock  ordered.  Could  any  one  piece  together  such 
recklessness? 

Rickard  knew  where  he  would  get  his  rock.  Already 
he  had  requisitioned  the  entire  output  of  the  Tacna  and 
Patagonia  quarries.  He  had  ordered  steam  shovels  to 


THE    FIGHTING    CHANCE  133 

be  installed  at  the  quarry  back  of  old  Hamlin's.  That 
rock  pit  would  be  his  first  crutch,  and  the  gravel  bed, 
— that  was  a  find!  As  he  paced  the  levee  west  of  the 
towns,  he  was  planning  his  campaign.  Porter  was  scour 
ing  Zacatecas  for  men;  he  himself  had  offered,  as  bait, 
free  transportation;  the  O.  P.  he  knew  would  back  him. 
He  was  going  to  throw  out  a  spur-track  from  the  Head 
ing,  touching  at  the  quarry  and  gravel  pit,  on  to  the  main 
road  at  Yuma.  Double  track  most  of  the  way;  sidings 
every  three  miles.  Rock  must  be  rushed ;  the  trains  must 
be  pushed  through.  He  itched  to  begin.  It  never  oc 
curred  to  him  that,  like  Hardin,  he  might  fail. 

"Though  it's jjo-pinkr  tea,"  he  told  himself,  "it's  no 
picnic."  At  Tucson,~rre-~knew  that  the  situation  was  a 
grave  one,  but  his  talk  with  Brandon,  who  knew  his 
river  signs  as  does  a  good  Indian,  made  the  year  a  sig 
nificant,  eventful  one.  Matt  Hamlin,  too,  whose  shrewd 
eyes  had  grown  river-wise,  he,  too,  had  had  tales  to  tell,  ^ 
of  the  tricky  river.  Maldonado,  the  half-breed,  had  conl 
firmed  their  portents  while  they  sat  together  under  hi.$ 
oleander,  famous  throughout  that  section  of  the  country. 
And  powerfully  had  Cor'nel,  the  Indian  who  had  piloted 
Estrada's  party  across  the  desert,  whom  Rickard  hacl 
met  at  the  Crossing,  deeply  had  he  impressed  him.  The 
river  grew  into  a  malevolent,  mocking  personality;  he 
could  see  it  a  dragon  of  yellow  waters,  dragging  its  slow 
sluggish  length  across  the  baked  desert  sands ;  deceiving 
men  by  its  inertness ;  luring  the  explorer  by  a  mild  mood, 
to  rise  suddenly  with  its  wild  fellow,  the  Gila,  sending 
boat  and  boatmen  to  their  swift  doom. 

Rickard  was  thinking  of  the  half-breed,  Maldonado, 
as  he  inspected  the  new  stretch  of  levee  between  the 
towns.  He  had  heard  from  others  besides  Estrada  of 

ss 


134  THE    RIVER 

the  river  knowledge  of  this  descendant  of  trapper  and 
squaw,  and  had  thought  it  worth  while  to  ride  the  twenty 
miles  from  down  the  river  to  talk  with  him.  The  man's 
suavity,  his  narrow  slits  of  eyes,  the  lips  thin  and  facile, 
deep  lines  of  cruelty  falling  from  them,  had  repelled  his 
visitor.  The  mystery  of  the  place  followed  him.  Why 
the  'dobe  wall  which  completely  surrounded  the  small 
low  dwellings  ?  Why  the  cautious  admittance,  the  atmo 
sphere  of  suspicion?  Rickard  had  seen  the  wife,  a 
frightened  shadow  of  a  woman ;  had  seen  her  flinch  when 
the  brute  called  her.  He  had  questioned  Cor'nel  about 
the  half-breed.  He  was  remembering  the  wrinkles  of 
contempt  on  the  old  Indian's  face  as  he  delivered  himself 
of  an  oracular  grunt. 

"White  man?     No.     Indian?     No!     Coyote!" 

Though  he  suspected  Maldonado  would  lie  on  prin 
ciple,  though  it  might  be  that  two-thirds  of  his  glib  tissue 
were  false,  yet  a  thread  of  truth  coincident  with  the 
others,  Brandon  and  Hamlin  and  Cor'nel,  might  be  pulled 
out  of  his  romantic  fabric. 

"When  the  waters  of  the  Gila  run  red,  look  for 
trouble !"  He  doubted  that  they  ever  ran  red.  He  would 
ask  Cor'nel.  He  had  also  spoken  of  a  cycle,  known  to 
Indians,  of  a  hundredth  year,  when  the  Dragon  grows 
restless ;  this  he  had  declared  was  a  hundredth  year. 

On  the  road  from  Maldonado's,  Rickard  had  met 
several  Indians  swaying  from  their  saddles ;  a  half-breed 
lurching  unsteadily  toward  Yuma.  He  had  made  note 
of  that.  Who  was  selling  liquor  to  those  Indians,  those 
half-breeds?  Maldonado  could  have  told  him,  Mal 
donado  who  wore  the  dirty  unrecognizable  uniform  of 
a  rurale.  Rickard  was  going  to  use  Indian  labor ;  must 
depend,  he  knew,  for  steady  work,  the  brush  clearing  and 


THE    FIGHTING   CHANCE  13$ 

the  mattress  weaving,  on  the  natives.  If  any  one  was 
selling  mescal  and  tequila  within  a  day's  ride  of  the 
Heading,  it  was  his  place  to  find  out. 

Following  his  talk  with  Maldonado,  and  the  accidental 
happy  chance  meeting  with  Coronel  at  the  Crossing, 
Rickard  had  written  his  first  report  to  Tod  Marshall. 
Before  he  had  come  to  the  Heading,  he  had  expected  to 
advise  against  the  completion  of  the  wooden  head-gate 
at  the  Crossing.  Hamlin  had  given  him  a  new  view-point. 
There  was  a  fighting  chance.  And  he  wanted  to  be  fair. 
Next  to  being  successful,  he  wanted  to  be  fair. 

He  smiled  as  he  remembered  MacLean's  cramped  fin 
gers  after  the  dictation  was  done.  "Holy  Minnie,"  he 
had  exclaimed,  rubbing  his  joints.  "If  you  call  that 
going  slow!" 

"It's  time  to  be  hearing  from  Marshall,"  Rickard  was 
thinking,  as  he  walked  back  to  the  hotel.  "I  wonder 
what  he  will  say."  He  felt  it  had  been  fair  to  put  it  up  to 
Marshall ;  personally,  he  would  like  to  begin  with  a  clean 
slate ;  begin  right.  Clumsy  work  had  been  done,  it  was 
true,  yet  there  were  urgent  reasons  now  for  haste;  and 
the  gate  was  nearly  half  done!  He  had  gone  carefully 
over  the  situation.  The  heavy  snowfall,  unprecedented 
for  years,  a  hundred,  according  to  the  Indians, — on  the 
Wind  River  Mountains — the  lakes  swollen  with  ice,  the 
Gila  restless,  the  summer  floods  yet  to  be  met;  perhaps, 
he  now  thought,  he  had  been  overfair  in  emphasizing  the 
arguments  for  the  head-gate.  For  the  hundred  feet  were 
now  a  thousand  feet — yet  he  had  spoken  of  that  to  Mar 
shall:  "Calculate  for  yourself  the  difference  in  expense 
since  the  flood  widened  the  break.  It  is  a  vastly  differ 
ent  problem  now.  Disaster  Island,  which  they  figured 
on  for  anchor,  is  a  mere  pit  of  corroding  sugar  in  the 


136  THE    RIVER 

channel.  An  infant  Colorado  could  wash  it  away.  How 
ever,  a  lot  of  work  has  already  been  done,  and  a  lot  of 
money  spent.  There  is  a  fighting  chance.  Perhaps  the 
bad  year  is  all  Indian  talk." 

A  guess,  at  best,  whatever  they  did!  It  was  pure 
gamble  what  the  tricky  Colorado  would  do.  Anyway, 
he  had  given  the  whole  situation  to  Marshall. 

In  his  box  at  the  hotel  was  a  telegram  which  had  been 
sent  over  from  the  office;  from  Tod  Marshall.  "Take 
the  fighting  chance.  But  remember  to  speak  more  re 
spectfully  of  Indians!" 

"Marshall  all  over,"  laughed  his  subordinate.  "Now, 
it's  a  case  of  hustle !  But  dollars  to  doughnuts,  as  Junior 
says,  we  don't  do  it!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 
HARDIN'S  LUCK 

TWO  days  later,  there  was  a  shock  of  earthquake,  so 
slight  that  the  lapping  of  the  water  in  Rickard's 
bath  was  his  intimation  of  the  earth's  uneasiness.  In 
the  dining-room,  later,  he  found  every  one  discussing  it. 
"Who  could  remember  an  earthquake  in  that  desert?" 
"The  first  shake !" 

"The  Indians  might  have  something  to  say  about  that," 
thought  Rickard. 

His  pompadoured  waitress  was  ready  to  fall  into  hys 
teria.  "Several  dishes  fell  off  the  pantry  shelves.  Give 
me  a  Kansas  cyclone  to  an  earthquake,  I  say,  every  time. 
For  there  is  always  a  cyclone  cellar.  But  the  earth  under 
your  feet !  Me  for  Kansas,  every  time !" 

After  he  had  placed  his  breakfast  order,  while  waiting 
for  his  eggs — "Ten  minutes  in  boiling  water,  off  the 
stove,  mind !" — Rickard  got  the  Crossing  on  the  telephone. 
Matt  Hamlin  answered  the  call.  He  insisted  on  describ 
ing  the  exact  place  he  had  stood  when  the  shock  came. 
It  wasn't  anything  of  a  quake.  A  baby  to  the  shake  of 
'67.  No  harm  done  out  there.  While  he  was  on  the  line, 
Rickard  heard  the  sound  of  other  voices.  "It's  Silent 
just  in  from  the  Heading."  "Hello,  there,"  cried  Rick 
ard.  "Don't  hang  up.  Ask  him  about  the  gate.  Any 
damage  done?" 

137 


THE   RIVER 

Silent,  himself,  came  on  the  wire.  The  gate  was  all 
right.  "That  was  nothing  of  a  quake."  Rickard  then 
got  Grant's  Heading.  The  temblor  had  been  felt  more 
there,  but  no  serious  damage  had  been  done.  Rickard 
went  back  to  his  boiled  eggs.  The  earthquake  was  for 
gotten. 

During  the  morning,  unfathered,  as  rumors  are  born, 
the  whisper  of  disaster  somewhere  spread.  Their  own 
slight  shock  was  the  edge  of  the  convulsion  which  had 
been  serious  elsewhere,  no  one  knew  quite  where,  or 
why  they  knew  it  at  all.  The  men  who  were  shoveling 
earth  on  the  levee  began  to  talk  of  San  Francisco.  Some 
one  said,  that  morning,  that  the  city  was  badly  hurt.  No 
one  could  confirm  the  rumor,  but  it  grew  with  the  day. 

Rickard  met  it  at  the  office  late  in  the  afternoon.  The 
word  was  growing  in  definiteness.  There  was  trouble 
up  North.  A  terrible  disaster ;  people  had  been  killed ; 
towns  were  burning.  There  was  a  report  of  a  tidal 
wave  which  had  swept  San  Francisco.  Another  quoted 
that  San  Jose  had  telegraphed  all  the  wires  from  San 
Francisco  down ;  that  San  Francisco  was  burning. 
He  went  direct  to  the  telegraph  operator's  desk. 

"Get  Los  Angeles,  the  O.  P.  office.  And  be  quick 
about  it." 

In  ten  minutes,  he  was  talking  to  Babcock.  That 
human  clock  confirmed  some  of  the  ugly  rumors.  The 
wires  between  San  Francisco  and  the  rest  of  the  world 
were  down ;  impossible  to  get  any  word  from  there. 

"Any  relative  there?"  he  inquired  with  sympathy  on 
tap.  Such  messages  had  been  coming  in  all  day. 

"Oh,  no.  How  much  do  you  know?  How  do  you 
know  it?"  persisted  Rickard. 

Babcock  said  that  the  damage  by  earthquake  to  that 


HARDIN'S   LUCK  139 

city  was  not  known,  but  it  was  afire.  San  Jose  had  con 
firmed  it.  Oakland  had  reported  the  flames  creeping  up 
the  residence  hills  of  that  gay  western  city.  Cinders 
were  already  falling  in  the  transbay  town. 

Rickard  dropped  the  receiver.     "Where's  Hardin?" 

Tom  Hardin  emerged  from  a  knot  of  men  who  were 
talking  in  a  corner  by  the  door. 

"Where's  that  machinery?" 

"What  machinery  ?" 

Rickard  saw  the  answer  to  his  question  in  the  other's 
face. 

"The  dredge  machinery.  Did  you  attend  to  that? 
Did  you  send  for  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  all  right.    It's  all  right." 

"Is  it  here?" 

Hardin  attempted  jocularity.  "I  didn't  know  as  you 
wanted  it  here.  I  ordered  it  sent  to  Yuma." 

"Is  it  at  Yuma?" 

Hardin  admitted  that  it  was  not  yet  at  Yuma ;  it  would 
be  there  soon ;  he  had  written ;  oh,  it  was  all  right. 

"When  did  you  write?" 

Hardin  reddened  under  the  catechism  of  questions. 
He  resented  being  held  up  before  his  men.  The  others 
felt  the  electricity  in  the  air.  Hardin  and  his  successor 
were  glaring  at  each  other  like  belligerents. 

"I  asked  when  did  you  write?" 

"Yesterday." 

"Yesterday!"  Rickard  ripped  out  an  oath.  "Yester 
day.  Why  at  all,  I'd  like  to  know?  Did  you  under 
stand  that  you  were  ordered  to  get  that  here?  Now,  it's 
gone." 

"Gone?"    The  others  crowded  up. 

"San  Francisco's  burning."    He  walked  into  his  inner 


140  THE    RIVER 

office,  mad  clear  through.  The  group  around  Hardin 
were  tearing  his  wisp  of  news.  San  Francisco  on  fire. 
The  city  of  their  fun  gone. 

He  was  not  thinking  of  the  ruin  of  the  gay  young 
city;  not  a  thought  yet  did  he  have  of  the  human  trag 
edies  enacting  there ;  of  homes,  lives,  fortunes  swept  into 
that  huge  bonfire.  As  it  affected  the  work  at  the  river, 
the  first  block  to  his  campaign,  the  catastrophe  came 
home  to  him.  He  had  a  picture  of  tortured,  twisted 
iron,  of  ruined  machinery,  the  machinery  for  his  dredge. 
He  saw  it  lying  like  a  spent  Laocoon,  writhing  in  its 
last  struggle.  He  blamed  himself  for  leaving  even  such  a 
small  detail  as  the  hastening  of  the  parts  to  Hardin's 
care,  for  Hardin  wasn't  fit  to  be  trusted  for  anything. 
No  one  could  tell  him  now  the  man  was  unlucky ;  he  was 
a  fool.  A  month  wasted,  and  days  were  precious.  A 
month  ?  Months.  Hardin's  luck.  Oh,  hell ! 

Then  he  began  to  speculate,  as  he  cooled,  over  the 
trouble  up  yonder.  A  whole  city  burning?  They  would 
surely  get  it  under  control.  He  began  to  think  of  the 
isolation ;  the  telegraph  wires  all  down.  That  might  hap 
pen  anywhere!  He  walked  to  the  door  and  looked 
thoughtfully  at  the  company's  big  water-tower.  That 
wasn't  such  a  bad  idea !  He  picked  up  his  hat,  and  went 
out. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  WRONG  MAN 

MRS.  Hardin  heard  from  every  source  but  the  right 
one  that  Rickard  had  returned.  Each  time  her 
telephone  rang,  it  was  his  voice  she  expected  to  hear. 
She  began  to  read  a  meaning  into  his  silence.  She  could 
think  of  nothing  else  than  the  strange  coincidence  that 
had  brought  their  lives  again  close.  Or  was  it  a  coin 
cidence?  That  idea  sent  her  thoughts  far  afield. 

She  was  thinking  too  much  of  him,  for  peace  of  mind, 
those  days  of  waiting,  but  the  return  of  the  old  lover 
had  made  a  wonderful  break  in  her  life.  Her  eyes  were 
brighter ;  her  smile  was  less  forced.  She  spent  most  of  her 
days  at  the  sewing-machine.  A  lot  of  lace  was  whipped 
on  to  lingerie  frocks  of  pale  colors.  She  was  a  disciple 
of  an  eastern  esthete.  "Women/'  he  had  said,  "should 
buy  lace,  not  by  the  yard,  but  by  the  mile." 

She  had  attended  his  lectures  while  in  New  York, 
acquiring  a  distaste  for  all  her  possessions.  He  had 
taught  her  to  disdain  golden-oak,  to  fear  bric-a-brac,  to 
forswear  all  vivid  colors.  She  could  see  no  charm  in 
the  tailor-made  girl,  in  Innes'  trig  shirt-waists  and  well- 
cut  skirts.  The  yellow  khakis  always  outraged  her  sense 
of  beauty.  The  girl's  ideas  on  fitness  would  have  shocked 
and  wounded  her. 

As  her  fingers  worked  among  the  laces  and  soft  mulls, 

141 


142  THE   RIVER 

her  mind  roved  down  avenues  that  should  have  been 
closed  to  her,  a  wife.  She  would  have  protested,  had 
any  one  accused  her  of  infidelity  in  those  days,  yet  day 
by  day,  she  was  straying  farther  from  her  husband's 
side.  She  convinced  herself  that  Tom's  gibes  and  ill- 
humor  were  getting  harder  to  endure. 

It  was  inevitable  that  the  woman  of  harem  training 
should  relive  the  Lawrence  days.  The  enmity  of  those 
two  men,  both  her  lovers,  was  pregnant  with  romantic 
suggestion.  The  drama  of  desert  and  river  centered  now 
in  the  story  of  Gerty  Hardin.  Rickard,  who  had  never 
married!  The  deduction,  once  unveiled,  lost  all  its  shy 
ness.  And  every  one  saw  that  he  disliked  her  husband ! 

She  knew  now  that  she  had  never  loved  Tom.  She 
had  turned  to  him  in  those  days  of  pride  when  Rickard's 
anger  still  held  him  aloof.  How  many  times  had  she 
gone  over  those  unreal  hours !  Who  could  have  known 
that  his  anger  would  last?  That  hour  in  the  honey 
suckles;  his  kisses!  None  of  Hardin's  rougher  kisses 
had  swept  her  memory  of  her  exquisite  delight — deliri 
ous  as  was  her  joy,  there  was  room  for  triumph.  She 
had  seen  herself  clear  of  the  noisy  boarding-house.  Her 
self,  Gerty  Holmes,  the  wife  of  a  professor;  able  to  have 
the  things  she  craved,  to  have  them  openly;  no  longer 
having  to  scheme  for  them. 

It  was  through  Rickard's  eyes  that  she  had  seen  the 
shortcomings  of  the  college  boarding-house.  She  had 
acquired  a  keen  consciousness  of  those  quizzical  eyes. 
When  they  had  isolated  her,  at  last,  appealing  to  her 
sympathy  or  amusement,  separating  her  from  all  those 
boisterous  students,  her  dream  of  bliss  had  begun. 

In  those  days,  she  had  seen  Hardin  through  the  eyes  of 
the  young  instructor,  younger  by  several  years  than  his 


THE   WRONG   MAN  143 

pupil.  Her  thud  of  disappointed  anger,  of  dislike,  when 
the  face  of  Hardin  peered  through  the  leafy  screen !  To 
have  waited,  prayed  for  that  moment,  and  to  have  it 
spoiled  like  that!  There  had  been  days  when  she  had 
wept  because  she  had  not  shown  her  anger !  How  could 
she  know  that  everything  would  end  there;  end,  just 
beginning !  Her  boarding-house  training  had  taught  her 
to  be  civil.  It  was  still  vivid  to  her,  her  anxiety,  her 
tremulousness — with  Hardin  talking  forever  of  a  play 
he  had  just  seen;  Rickard  growing  stiffer,  angrier,  re 
fusing  to  look  at  those  lips  still  warm  with  his  kisses ! 

And  the  next  day,  still  angry  with  her.  Ah,  the  puz 
zled  desolation  of  those  weeks  before  she  had  salved  her 
hurt;  with  pride,  and  then  with  love!  Those  days  of 
misery  before  she  could  convince  herself  that  she  had 
been  in  love  with  love,  not  with  her  fleeing  lover !  Hardin 
was  there,  eager  to  be  noticed.  That  affair,  she  could  sea 
now,  had  lacked  finesse. 

Rickard  had  certainly  loved  her,  or  why  had  he  never 
married?  Why  had  he  left  so  abruptly  his  boarding- 
house,  in  mid-term?  Doesn't  jealousy  confess  love? 
Some  day,  he  would  tell  her ;  what  a  hideous  mistake 
hers  had  been !  She  ought  not  to  have  rushed  into  that 
marriage.  She  knew  now  it  had  always  been  the  other. 
But  life  was  not  finished,  yet ! 

The  date  set  for  her  summer  "widowhood"  had  come, 
but  she  lingered.  Various  reasons,  splendid  and  sacri 
ficial,  were  given  out.  There  was  much  to  be  done. 

"I  wish  she  would  be  definite,"  Innes'  thoughts  com 
plained.  She  was  restless  to  make  her  own  plans.  It 
had  not  yet  occurred  to  her  that  Gerty  would  stay  in  all 
summer.  For  she  never  had  so  martyrized  herself.  "Some 
one  must  be  with  Tom.  It  may  spoil  my  trip.  But  Gerty 


144  THE    RIVER 

never  thinks  of  that."  She  believed  it  to  be  a  simple 
matter  of  clothes.  It  always  took  her  weeks  to  get  ready 
to  go  anywhere. 

"But  I  won't  wait  any  longer  than  next  week.  If  she 
does  not  go  then,  I  will.  Absurd  for  us  both  to  be  here." 
It  was  already  fiercely  hot. 

Gerty,  meanwhile,  had  been  wondering  how  she  could 
suggest  to  her  sister-in-law  that  her  trip  be  taken  first. 
Without  arousing  suspicions!  Terribly  loud  in  her  ears 
sounded  her  thoughts  those  days. 

Her  husband  flung  a  letter  on  the  table  one  evening. 
"A  letter  to  you  from — Casey." 

She  tried  to  make  the  fingers  that  closed  over  the 
letter  move  casually.  She  could  feel  them  tremble.  What 
would  she  say  if  Tom  asked  to  see  it? 

It  was  addressed  to  her  in  her  husband's  care.  Hardin 
had  found  it  at  the  office  in  his  mail.  And  she  going  each 
day  to  the  post-office  to  prevent  it  from  falling  into  his 
hands!  She  gave  it  a  quick  offhand  glance. 

"About  the  drive,  of  course.  Supper's  getting  cold. 
Look  at  that  omelet.  Don't  wait  to  wash  up.  It  will  be 
like  leather." 

When  she  had  finished  her  meal,  she  read  her  letter 
with  a  fine  show  of  indifference.  "He  sets  a  date  for  the 
drive."  She  put  the  letter  carelessly  into  her  pocket 
before  her  husband  could  stretch  out  his  hand.  It  would 
never  do  for  jealous  Tom  to  read  that:  "Your  letter  was 
received  two  weeks  ago.  Pardon  me  for  appearing  to 
have  forgotten  your  kindness." 

"The  nerve,"  growled  Tom  again,  his  mouth  full  of 
Gerty's  omelet.  "To  take  you  up  on  an  invitation  like 
that.  I  call  that  pretty  raw." 


THE   WRONG    MAN  145 

"You  must  remember  we  are  such  old  friends,"  urged 
his  wife.  "He  knew  I  meant  it  seriously." 

"Just  the  same,  it's  nerve,"  grumbled  Hardin,  helping 
himself  to  more  of  the  omelet,  now  a  flat  ruin  in  the 
center  of  the  Canton  platter.  His  resentment  had  taken 
on  an  edge  of  hatred  since  the  episode  of  the  dredge 
machinery.  "To  write  to  any  one  in  my  house !  He 
knows  what  I  think  of  him;  an  ineffectual  ass,  that's 
what  he  is.  Blundering  around  with  his  little  levees, 
and  his  fool  work  on  the  water-tower." 

"The  water-tower  ?"  demanded  his  sister.  "What's  he 
doing  with  that  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  rejoined  Tom  largely,  his  lips 
protruding.  He  had  been  itching  to  ask  some  one  what 
Rickard  was  up  to.  Twice,  he  had  seen  him  go  up,  with 
MacLean  and  Estrada.  Once,  there  a  large  flare  of 
light.  But  he  wouldn't  ask !  Some  of  his  fool  tinkering ! 

His  sister's  gaze  rested  on  him  with  concern.  He  had 
too  little  to  do.  She  guessed  that  his  title,  consulting 
engineer,  was  a  mocking  one,  that  his  chief,  at  least,  did 
not  consult  him.  Was  it  true,  what  she  had  heard,  that 
he  had  made  a  fluke  about  the  machinery  ?  He  was  look 
ing  seedy.  He  had  been  letting  his  clothes  go.  He  looked 
like  a  man  who  has  lost  grip ;  who  has  been  shelved. 

She  knew  he  was  sleeping  badly.  Every  morning  now 
she  found  the  couch  rumpled.  Not  much  pretense  of 
marital  congeniality.  Things  were  going  badly,  there — 

"Everybody  has  accepted,"  Gerty  was  saying.  "They 
have  been  waiting  for  me  to  set  the  date." 

"And  you  cater  to  him,  let  him  dangle  you  all.  I  won 
der  why  you  do  it,  unless  it's  to  hurt  me." 

"Hurt  you,  Tom,"  cried  his  wife,  her  deep  blue  eyes 


146      ,  THE   RIVER 

wide  with  dismay.  "How  can  you  say  such  a  thing? 
But  if  it  is  given  for  him,  how  can  I  do  anything  else 
than  let  him  arrange  the  day  to  suit  himself?  It  would 
be  funny  for  the  guest  of  honor  not  to  be  present, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  want  to  make  him  a  guest  of 
honor,"  he  retreated,  covering  his  position. 

Gently,  Gerty  expressed  her  belief  that  she  was  doing 
the  best  thing  for  her  husband  in  getting  up  a  public 
affair  for  his  successor.  She  did  think  that  Tom  would 
see  that  it  showed  they  had  no  feeling. 

"I  think  it  a  fine  idea,"  agreed  Innes  heartily.     "I'm 

sure  Tom  will,  too,  when  he  thinks  about  it."     But  she 

did  not  give  him  any  chance  to  express  himself.     "How 

J  are  you  going  to  manage  it,  Gerty?     You  said  it  was 

going  to  be  progressive?" 

"We  shall  draw  for  partners,"  said  Mrs.  Hardin. 
"And  change  every  half  a  mile.  The  first  lap  will  be 
two  miles ;  that  will  give  some  excitement  in  cutting  for 
partners."  Easy,  being  the  hostess,  to  withhold  any  slip 
she  pleased,  easy  to  make  it  seem  accidental ! 

"When  is  this  circus  coming  off?"  inquired  her  hus 
band. 

"Mr.  Rickard  says  he  will  be  back  on  the  first ;  that 
^  he'll  be  free  on  the  second." 

Hardin  scraped  his  chair  over  the  pine  board  floor 
which  Gerty  had  helped  Sam  to  treat  until  it  looked 
"hard."  Each  alternate  strip  had  been  stained  dark,  the 
whole  waxed  and  rubbed  until  it  almost  gave  a  shadow, 
\  the  housekeeper's  idea  of  elegance. 

"For  half  an  hour,  I'll  listen  to  Mrs.  Youngberg  tell 
me  how  hard  it  is  to  have  to  do  without  servants,  as 
she's  never  done  it  in  her  life  before.  For  another  half- 


THE   WRONG   MAN  147 

mile,  Mrs.  Hatfield  will  flirt  with  me,  and  Mrs.  Middje- 
ton  will  tell  me  all  about  'her  dear  little  kiddies.'  Sounds 
cheerful.  Why  didn't  you  choose  cards  ?  No  one  has  to 
talk  then." 

There  was  an  interval  when  his  wife  appeared  to  be 
balancing  his  suggestion.  "No,  I  think  it  will  have  to  be 
a  drive ;  for  I've  told  every  one  about  it." 

"Well,"  remarked  her  husband,  "I  only  hope  something 
will  happen  to  prevent  it." 

"Tom !"  exclaimed  Gerty  Hardin.  "What  a  dreadful 
thing  to  say.  That  sounds  like  a  curse.  You  make  my 
blood  run  cold." 

"Shu !"  said  Hardin,  picking  up  his  hat.    "That  was  no 
curse.    You  wouldn't  go  if  it  rained,  would  you?" 
"Oh,  rain!"     She  shrugged  at  that  possibility. 
"Well,  you  wouldn't  go  if  the  wind  blows !"  retorted 
Hardin,  leaving  the  room. 

A  minute  later  he  stuck  his  head  through  the  door. 
"Mrs.  Youngberg's  outside." 

"Mrs.  Youngberg!"  cried  Gerty,  pleasantly  fluttered. 
She  ran  out  into  the  street  without  waiting  to  pick  up  a 
hat.  "For  I'll  make  her  come  in  this  time,"  she  thought. 
"I  won't  stand  craning  my  neck  and  squinting  up  at  her 
as  if  she  were  the  great  high  executioner." 

Mrs.  Youngberg  leaned  out  from  the  box  buggy,  and 
kissed  her.  "How  are  you  these  days  ?"  Her  voice  was 
solicitous. 

"Oh,  splendid!"  Gerty  smiled  gaily  toward  the  occu 
pant  of  the  buggy,  but  the  desert  sun  deflected  the  smile 
into  a  grimace.  "Won't  you  come  in  to-day  ?  Do  tie  up, 
and  have  a  little  visit." 

"Oh,  I  can't  this  morning.  I  have  a  hundred  errands 
to  attend  to,  and  I  must  get  back  in  time  to  get  lunch 


148  THE    RIVER 

for  my  family.  I  lost  my  maid;  isn't  it  terrible  down 
here?  You  can't  keep  a  girl  for  a  week.  I  don't  mind 
cooking  for  my  husband,  but  I  do  draw  the  line  at  being 
cook  for  the  hired  men.  And  the  coarse  things  they  like ! 
You  can't  always  cook  a  double  meal.  And  I  lost  one 
of  the  best  workers  we  ever  had,  that  was  when  we  first 
came  here,  because  he  didn't  like  the  food  I  gave  him. 
Stuffed  eggs,  and  Waldorf  salad.  What  do  you  think 
of  that  ?  It's  quantity  they  want,  and  that  man  went  off 
and  said  I'd  starved  him." 

"Do  come  in,"  urged  Gerty,  squinting  at  the  sun. 

"I  can't.  I'd  like  to,  but  I  can't.  My  husband  likes 
his  meal  prompt,  and  the  men  simply  come  in  and  sit 
down,  and  watch  you  until  it's  ready." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  interposed  the  other,  half-blinded.  "But 
surely  you  can  stay  a  minute.  I  have  so  many  things  to 
tell  you." 

"I,  too.  I  want  to  have  the  ladies  of  the  Improvement 
Club  in  to  tea  before  I  go  out ;  I  think  it  will  be  Friday. 
After  I  sound  the  ladies  a  little,  I'll  let  you  know." 

"Last  year,  she  would  have  had  me  set  the  day."  Gerty 
was  on  the  outlook  for  stings ;  she  felt  that  she  had  lost 
her  position  in  the  valley  set. 

"Of  course,  that  includes  Miss  Hardin,"  added  Mrs. 
Y/Dungberg,  drawing  up  the  reins. 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  the  drive,"  cried  Mrs. 
Kardin.    "It  is  to  be  on  the  second.    Will  you  take  this 
ajs  the  invitation,  or  must  I  write  to  you  ?" 
;  "Please,  don't  write."    And  Mrs.  Youngberg  was  driv 
ing  off  when  a  thought  seemed  to  strike  her. 

"I  saw  the  levee  as  I  was  driving  past.  What  in  the 
world  is  that  for?  Does  Mr.  Hardin  think  there  will  be 


THE   WRONG   MAN  149 

bigger  floods  than  we've  had  already?  Isn't  the  New 
River  deep  enough  to  carry  all  the  flood  waters  ?" 

Mrs.  Hardin  had  never  had  her  tact  so  completely 
taxed.  She  balanced  her  answer  carefully,  with  appre 
hension.  Almost  anything  would  sound  wrong  quoted 
as  from  her.  She  was  Hardin's  wife;  his  success  or 
failure  must  still  involve  her.  She  could  hear  her  an 
swer  quoted  to  Mr.  Rickard.  "Mr.  Hardin  hoped  it 
would  not  be  necessary."  And  then  warmly  she  praised 
Rickard's  foresight  in  case  anything  did  happen! 

She  went  into  the  house,  flushed  and  blinking  and  un 
comfortable,  revolving  a  better,  more  diplomatic  answer. 
She  was  convinced  that  that  last  question  had  been  the 
object  of  the  visit.  These  top-buggy  visits,  as  Innes 
called  them,  annoyed  her.  It  was  an  irritation  to  all  the 
women  of  the  towns,  for  Mrs.  Youngberg  never  had 
time  to  get  out;  she  always  would  keep  them  standing 
restive  under  the  glare  of  desert  sun.  From  the  wife 
of  Youngberg,  they  would  never  have  endured  it.  Sen 
ator  Graves  made  the  situation  a  trifle  delicate. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   BEST   LAID    SCHEMES 

IT  was  the  forenoon  of  the  second.  Several  times  dur 
ing  the  morning  Gerty  left  her  preparations  to  take 
forecasts  of  the  weather.  It  was  not  so  hot  as  it  had 
been  and  there  was  a  moon.  She  congratulated  herself ; 
:t  would  be  a  fine  night. 

Her  tent  door  was  locked  all  morning.  A  new  variety 
of  salad  was  on  the  way,  the  latest  New  York  idea.  For 
hours,  Gerty's  fingers  were  shredding  the  skins  from 
muscat  grapes  which  were  to  be  chilled,  and  served  with 
French  dressing  on  crisp  desert  lettuce.  The  grapes,  too, 
were  desert  bred.  It  was  a  long  task,  and  while  her 
fingers  worked,  her  mind  ran  ahead  nervously  to  the  few 
name-cards  that  had  to  be  finished,  white  cards  with  a 
design  of  the  palo  verde,  the  characteristic  tree  of  the 
region.  The  color  scheme  was  pastel  green  and  white. 
Pistachio  ice-cream  and  vanilla  had  been  ordered  from 
Los  Angeles,  and  Gerty  herself  had  colored  the  cream 
peppermints.  Innes  had  suggested  using  the  yellow  blos 
soms  of  the  mesquit,  but  Mrs.  Hardin  hated  yellow ;  it 
was  too  "positive." 

Her  eyes  watched  the  clock  hands.  Eleven  o'clock, 
and  those  candle-shades  not  done !  More  time  than  she 
had  reckoned  on  had  gone  into  the  building  of  the  white 
mull  lingerie  dress ;  it  had  pressed  her  with  the  shades 
and  cards.  And  she  had  no  time  to  work  at  night,  for 

150 


THE    BEST    LAID    SCHEMES  151 

the  Hardins  were  always  around  then.  Not  that  there 
was  any  reason  why  she  should  not  occupy  herself  indeed 
just  as  she  chose,  but  she  hated  interference.  If  there 
was  anything  she  resented  more  than  another,  it  was  inter 
ference.  Rather  than  explain  why  she  wanted  name- 
cards,  or  must  have  paper  shades  for  the  candles,  or 
moreover  why  it  was  necessary  to  have  a  frock  that  had 
not  been  seen  before,  she  preferred  to  lock  her  doors 
and  work  "like  mad."  Tom's  ridicule  was  so  stupid, 
and  his  sister  was  getting  to  be  like  him ;  not  that  she  said 
much,  but  she  had  such  a  scornful  look! 

The  clock  hands  were  flying.  She  stopped  to  count 
the  grapes  already  peeled  and  seeded.  "At  least  fifteen 
to  each  plate,"  she  had  calculated.  "And  twenty  guests, 
twenty  times  fifteen — three  hundred."  She  counted 
them  again.  "Only  two  hundred!"  The  clock  hands 
ticked  away  another  half-hour.  Her  fingers  began  to 
go  wild;  several  finished  grapes  fell  to  the  floor.  "I'll 
wash  them  off,"  she  thought. 

She  was  peeling  the  two  hundred  and  fiftieth,  when 
there  was  a  sound  of  wheels.  A  clear  "Oo-hoo"  sum 
moned  her. 

"It  is  Mrs.  Youngberg."  She  was  horrified.  "And  she 
wasn't  to  come  until  after  lunch."  She  slipped  off  her 
gingham  apron  and  ran  out  breathless  to  the  sidewalk. 

"Hope  you  don't  mind  my  coming  early,"  called  Mrs. 
Youngberg.  "It  was  now  or  never.  Can  you  come  with 
me  ?"  She  waved  to  the  greens  in  the  box  buggy.  "And 
are  these  enough  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  responded  Gerty  absently.  She  was  won 
dering  what  in  the  world  she  would  do  about  the  unpeeled 
grapes,  and  the  unfinished  shades  and  the  name-cards. 
Perhaps  she  could  do  with  eleven.  Innes  had  offered  to 


152  THE   RIVER 

help;  she  supposed  she  could  put  her  to  work  at  the 
grapes.  But  she  hated  to  have  people  help,  people  who 
looked  scornful  and  superior.  She  could  hear  her  say: 
"Why  all  this  fuss?  Why  not  a  simpler  salad?"  If 
worse  came  to  worse,  she  could  put  a  plain  card  at  her 
husband's  place,  and  her  own.  She  needed  Mrs.  Young- 
berg's  help  with  the  table — 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  putting  you  out,"  her  friend  was  taking 
note  of  the  discomfiture.  "You  are  not  ready  ?" 

Mrs.  Hardin  hastened  to  deny  that.  "Oh,  yes !  I  was 
just  thinking  what  I'd  take  along.  Will  you  come  in?" 
For  once,  she  was  grateful  to  the  Youngberg  habit  of 
the  buggy.  She  took  the  answer  for  granted,  and  the 
tent  door  mangled  the  response  of  the  niece  of  Senator 
Graves. 

When  she  came  out,  her  arms  were  overflowing  with 
bundles.  A  large  hat  box  surmounted  the  smaller  ones, 
held  in  place  by  her  chin.  The  top  bulged  open.  As 
she  reached  the  sidewalk,  her  progress  grew  precarious, 
for  a  slight  wind  was  blowing.  She  had  not  closed  the 
hat  box  in  fear  of  her  precious  shades. 

"Give  me  something,"  cried  Mrs.  Youngberg.  She 
caught  the  band-box.  A  gust  of  evil  wind  raised  the  top ; 
one  of  the  shades  blew  out,  and  Gerty,  helpless  with 
crockery  in  her  hands,  watched  it  tumble  toward  the 
irrigation  ditch.  It  danced,  the  pretty  thing  of  pastel 
green  and  white,  on  the  surface  of  the  muddy  stream. 

"You  can  save  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Youngberg.  "Oh,  what 
a  pity!"  For  as  she  spoke  it  collided  with  a  floating 
branch.  Mud-splashed  and  ruined,  it  sailed  down  the 
street. 

"Oh,  never  mind  that,"  protested  Gerty  with  magnifi- 


THE    BEST    LAID    SCHEMES  153 

cence.  She  forced  a  cheery  smile  as  she  clambered  over 
her  parcels  into  the  buggy. 

"And  I  was  one  short  already!"  she  remembered  as 
they  drove  down  the  main  street,  the  buggy  heaped  high 
with  boxes  holding  the  treasured  shades,  the  cards  and 
napkins,  and  a  few  choice  plates.  The  supper  was  to  be 
at  the  hotel,  but  Gerty  planned  to  use  her  own  dishes 
and  cutlery — to  give  it  a  home-like  feeling!  Coulter's 
two  clerks  gaped  at  them  from  the  store  as  they  passed ; 
the  buggy  trailing  long  willow  branches,  and  Gerty  with 
her  boxes  obscuring  her  vision. 

In  front  of  Fred  Egger's  store  the  usual  group  of 
Indians  lounged,  the  squaws  careening  in  many  ruffles, 
the  bucks  brave  in  paint  and  shirts,  heavy  with  beads. 
Young  Morton  bowed  to  them  from  the  bank  windows 
on  which  a  man  was  laboriously  working.  He  had  al 
ready  finished  a  faint  black  outline,  The  Desert  Bank, 
and  was  beginning  to  fill  in  the  first  letter  with  gold-leaf. 
The  festive  buggy  made  quite  a  stir  in  the  desert  town ; 
every  one  had  heard  of  the  progressive  drive. 

"The  ditch  is  running  very  high  this  morning,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Youngberg,  noting  its  muddy  flow. 

"Somebody  is  irrigating  his  melons."  Mrs.  Hardin's 
observation  was  a  trifle  absent.  She  liked  the  attention 
they  were  attracting.  How  she  would  love  to  be  in  a 
position  where  she  could  use  her  social  talents ! 

Mrs.  Youngberg  was  reining  up  in  front  of  the  Desert 
Hotel.  Half  a  dozen  men  jumped  forward  to  tie  the 
mare,  and  to  help  the  ladies  with  their  bundles.  Gerty 
declared  she  would  not  let  them  carry  the  packages ;  she 
would  send  the  boy  after  them.  She  felt  the  importance 
of  a  leader  of  society. 


154  THE    RIVER 

"You  don't  mind  if  I  do  a  few  errands  first,"  called 
Mrs.  Yotingberg  after  her.  Gerty  whirled,  her  cheeks 
red,  her  eyes  seeing  not  Mrs.  Youngberg  but  a  vision  of 
the  kitchen  at  home ;  the  unpeeled  grapes,  the  candle- 
shades,  the  waiting  name-cards. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  help  me,"  she 
cried,  her  consternation  shrilling  her  voice. 

"I  shall  be  right  back,"  reassured  her  friend.  "You 
may  rely  on  me.  Mr.  Youngberg  could  not  come  in  this 
morning ;  he  gave  me  a  list  a  yard  long.  And  I  must  see 
Mrs.  Blinn  about  the  Improvement  Club ;  it  can't  be  put 
off.  I'm  not  going  to  fail  you.  You  may  rely  on  me." 

It  was  really  too  provoking.  The  whole  morning  had 
gone  wrong.  Mrs.  Hardin  marched  into  the  hotel,  her 
color  high.  She  might  have  guessed  that  Mrs.  Young 
berg  would  fall  down ;  she  always  did.  She  should  have 
relied  on  some  one  else,  that  homely  Towne  girl  who  is 
always  so  good-natured! 

Already  ruffled,  she  found  everything  to  be  exasper 
ating  in  the  Desert  Hotel.  She  had  taken  it  for  granted 
when  Patton  had  promised  her  the  use  of  the  dining- 
room  weeks  before  that  she  could  arrange  the  table  as 
she  would  use  it  at  eleven.  He  upset  all  her  plans  by 
telling  her  he  needed  the  space;  he  had  not  intended  to 
give  her  that  impression.  She  had  said,  he  reminded  her, 
that  she  needed  the  room  for  an  eleven  o'clock  supper. 

She  was  convinced  that  she  detected  a  difference  in 
his  manner  to  her.  "He  would  never  have  treated  me  so 
last  year.  We  are  nobodies,  now !" 

The  very  best  he  could  do,  Mr.  Patton  assured  her, 
was  to  let  her  arrange  the  table  in  the  drummers' 
sample  room  whence  it  could  be  carried  "all  set"  into 
the  dining-room  after  it  was  properly  cleared.  "I  have 


THE    BEST    LAID    SCHEMES  155 

to  consider  my  girls,"  he  said.  "If  I  ask  them  to  do  any 
thing  extra,  they  would  throw  the  whole  waitresses'  union 
in  my  face." 

"Give  me  a  soda  lemonade,  Mr.  Patton,"  ordered 
Gerty,  moving  to  the  white  and  silver  counter.  "I'll 
think  it  over." 

When  she  returned  to  the  attack,  he  was  still  obsti 
nately  fearful  to  antagonize  the  maids.  "Servants  are  not 
servants  in  California!"  He  led  the  way  to  the  drum 
mers'  room,  where  she  had  an  inspiration. 

"Let  me  have  this  room,  Mr.  Patton,"  she  urged.  "It 
will  be  so  much  cozier,  and  we  can  move  the  piano  in, 
and  have  music  without  it  being  so  public  as  it  is  in  the 
hall." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Hardin,  I'd  like  to  accommodate  you, 
but  there's  always  drummers  coming  in  here.  There's 
sure  to  be  one  or  more  on  that  six  o'clock  train.  It's 
right  after  supper  they  spread  their  samples." 

"Then  they'd  ruin  my  table!"  cried  Gerty. 

"Oh,  no,  I'll  give  them  another  table,  Mrs.  Hardin," 
protested  Patton.  "It's  the  best  I  can  do.  I  can't  afford 
to  lose  their  custom.  You  see,  they  pass  it  about,  from 
one  place  to  the  other,  and  if  anything  they  don't  like 
happens,  the  first  thing  your  custom  has  fallen  off." 

Haughtily,  Gerty  had  to  succumb.  She  found  her  next 
block  when  she  wished  to  bank  the  willow  greens  in  the 
dining-room.  It  lacked  a  few  minutes  to  twelve.  The 
doors  of  the  dining-room  would  be  thrown  open  to  the 
patrons  of  the  hotel;  she  compromised  on  vases.  They 
brought  her  a  few  small  affairs  which  refused  to  stand 
when  filled  with  the  top-heavy  branches. 

"I've  got  some  crockery  jugs  in  the  kitchen,"  Patton 
volunteered.  "I'll  have  them  washed  and  sent  in  to  you." 


156  THE   RIVER 

"And  I'm  waiting  for  the  cloth,  Mr.  Patton.  None 
of  mine  was  long  enough." 

Patton  confessed  that  his  were  too  short  for  the  long 
drummers'  table,  but  she  could  use  two.  No  one  would 
ever  see  where  they  doubled  in  the  center. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  cried  Gerty  Hardin.  Her  nerves  were 
on  edge  with  the  delay.  She  busied  herself  with  unpack 
ing  her  bundles,  listening  for  the  sound  of  Mrs.  Young- 
berg's  buggy  wheels.  The  table  was  fully  set,  the  candle- 
shades  placed,  the  name-cards  adjusted,  even  the  willows 
arranged  as  best  she  could  in  the  gray  crockery  jugs 
before  Mrs.  Youngberg  returned. 

She  professed  herself  entranced  with  everything.  And 
where  had  she  got  the  idea  of  those  darling  shades  ?  The 
green  blotting-paper  cut  out  stencil-wise  in  the  design  of 
water  lilies,  the  white  paper  lining  making  the  petals, 
was  altogether  charming  and  original.  Would  Mrs.  Har 
din  mind  if  she  copied  them? 

Mrs.  Hardin's  answer  was  a  little  strained.  "Of  course, 
I  do  not  mind."  Mrs.  Youngberg  decided  to  use  pink 
and  green  when  she  made  her  copies ;  the  white  was  a 
little  insipid !  She  was  taking  keen  note  of  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  guests,  of  her  husband's  name  and  Mrs.  Hat- 
field's,  side  by  side. 

"Is  it  all  right?"  inquired  Mrs.  Hardin,  watching  her 
face.  "It's  the  hardest  thing  to  place  people,  I  think." 

Not  for  the  world  would  Mrs.  Youngberg  have  sug 
gested  her  annoyance.  Every  one  put  her  husband  next 
to  Mrs.  Hatfield.  He  did  not  like  that  incorrigible  co 
quette  !  Every  one  knew  by  this  time  that  rightfully  she 
was  a  grandmother.  Her  divorced  husband  was  in  a 
remote  background  with  the  children  and  grandchildren. 
The  second  husband  was  a  minus,  negative  enough  to 


THE    BEST    LAID    SCHEMES  157 

maintain  the  tie  which  Mrs.  Hatfield's  coquetry  must  put 
under  severe  strain. 

"Admirable/'  said  Mrs.  Youngberg.  She  wondered  if 
Mrs.  Hardin  knew  that  a  wind  was  rising?  She  would 
not  tell  her.  "Admirable,"  she  repeated. 

Gerty's  eye  casually  observed  every  corner  of  the  hall 
as  the  two  women  made  their  way  out.  She  wanted  to 
look  at  the  register  to  see  if  Rickard's  name  were  there, 
but  her  self-consciousness  withheld  her.  He  might  see 
her.  Not  until  it  was  too  late  did  she  reflect  that  she 
might  have  announced  a  curiosity  as  to  new  arrivals. 
The  street  reached,  she  stared  blankly  at  the  wind-struck 
town ;  then  at  Mrs.  Youngberg. 

"Isn't  it  a  shame  ?"  murmured  her  friend.  "I  hated  to 
tell  you." 

Ready  to  cry  was  Gerty.  Even  the^wind  sided  against 
her  party.  It  was  blowing  down  the  main  street  like 
a  baby  hurricane  with  the  colic.  Her  hat  was  wrenched 
from  its  moorings. 

"It's  not  so  bad  as  it  used  to  be,"  shrieked  Mrs.  Young 
berg,  clambering  into  the  buggy.  "Before  the  alfalfa  was 
planted!" 

The  loungers  had  left  the  sidewalk.  Up-stairs,  the  di 
sheveled  chambermaids  were  making  the  beds  in  the  over- 
hanging  bird-cage.  The  street  was  deserted,  save  for  the  \ 
Cocopahs  who  flanked  the  door  of  Eggers'  store  like  ; 
bronze  inscrutable  sentinels.  Two  squaws  came  out  to 
watch  the  progress  of  the  wind-blown  buggy.  Their 
wide  ruffled  skirts  were  blown  into  balloons.  Large 
colored  handkerchiefs,  sewn  together  into  a  cloak,  bellied 
with  the  breeze.  They  watched  the  two  white  women 
incuriously,  steadily.  Mrs.  Youngberg  was  hanging  on 
to  her  Mexican  sombrero  with  her  left  gauntleted  hand, 


158  THE    RIVER 

Gerty  was  grabbing  her  pretty  sun  hat  with  her  tired 
fingers. 

As  they  passed  the  bank,  the  workman  was  leaving  his 
job ;  the  day  was  not  propitious  for  gold-leaf.  Two  words 
were  completed,  "The  Desert."  The  rest  of  the  letters 
were  inconspicuous  skeletons. 

Gerty  jumped  out  at  her  tent  door.  She  would  not 
risk  asking  Mrs.  Youngberg  in.  The  unexpected  might 
happen. 

"You  are  going  just  the  same?"  called  Mrs.  Young- 
berg,  her  mouth  full  of  dust. 

Mrs.  Hardin  nodded.  "Sure."  She  ran  in  to  her 
wilting  grapes. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  DRAGON  TAKES  A  HAND 

THE  company's  automobile  honked  outside.  Hardin 
frowned  across  the  table  at  his  wife.  "You're 
surely  not  going  such  a  night  as  this?" 

Gerty  gave  one  of  her  light,  elusive  shrugs.  No  need 
to  answer  Tom  when  he  was  in  one  of  his  black  moods. 
This  was  the  first  word  he  had  spoken  since  he  had 
entered  the  tent.  She  had  warned  Innes  by  a  lifted  eye 
brow — they  must  be  careful  not  to  provoke  him.  Some 
thing  had  gone  wrong  at  the  office,  of  course !  How 
much  longer  could  she  stand  his  humors,  these  ghastly 
silent  dinners? 

"The  river  on  a  rampage,  and  we  go  for  a  drive!" 
jeered  Hardin. 

The  flood  was  not  serious — yet!  Tom  loved  to  cry 
"Wolf!"  No  one  was  alarmed  in  town — Patton,  Mrs. 
Youngberg,  would  have  told  her.  Of  course,  one  never 
knew  what  that  dreadful  river  would  do  next,  but  if  one 
had  to  wait  always  to  see  what  the  river's  next  prank 
would  be,  one  would  never  get  anywhere ! 

Innes  was  leaving  the  table.  "Well,  I  suppose  I  should 
be  lashing  on  my  hat !"  Gerty's  pretty  lips  hardened  as 
the  girl  left  the  tent.  These  Hardins  always  loved  to 
spoil  her  enjoyment.  They  would  like  her  to  be  a  nun, 
a  cloistered  nun ! 

159 


160  THE   RIVER 

At  the  opening  of  the  door,  the  wind  tore  the  pictures 
from  the  piano,  wrenching  the  faded  green  mandarin 
skirt  which  Gerty  had  brought  from  San  Francisco.  Her 
sketches  were  flung  to  the  floor.  Gerty  ran  into  her 
room,  shutting  herself  in  against  further  argument.  Tom 
fastened  the  outer  door,  replacing  the  sketches  that 
stood  for  the  sum  and  height  of  his  wife's  several  flights, 
her  separate  career. 

He  was  still  staring  through  them,  when  his  wife 
came  back  into  the  room,  powdered  and  heavily  veiled 
against  the  wind.  A  heavy  winter  ulster  covered  the 
new  mull  gown  which  she  had  not  worn  at  supper,  though 
Innes  could  have  helped  her  with  the  hooks !  But  there 
was  always  so  much  talk  about  everything! 

They  had  to  face  the  gale  as  the  machine  swept  down 
the  wind-crazed  street.  "Never  saw  such  a  blow  in  all 
the  time  I've  been  here,"  yelled  Wooster  over  his  wheel 
to  Hardin. 

"Where's  Mr.  MacLean?"  Gerty  leaned  over  from  the 
back  seat  where  she  had  been  huddling.  She  felt  awk 
wardly  conscious  of  not  having  invited  Wooster.  She 
did  not  have  any  other  reason  for  excluding  him,  except 
that  she  did  not  meet  him  at  the  other  houses.  Still,  if 
Rickard  were  not  coming — they  would  be  short  a  man. 

"He  had  some  work  to  finish — he  asked  me  to  take 
out  the  machine,"  called  Wooster  without  turning.  The 
dust  was  blinding  him. 

"He's  probably  coming  later!"  cried  Gerty  to  Innes, 
and  then  she  huddled  in  her  corner  again.  It  was  easier 
not  to  talk ;  one  had  to  scream  to  be  heard. 

It  was  too  bad  to  have  a  night  like  this !  And  all  her 
work — Tom  and  his  sister  would  have  it  go  for  nothing ! 
She  was  made  of  stubborner  stuff  than  that.  Life  had 


THE  DRAGON  TAKES  A  HAND    161 

been  dealing  out  mean  hands  to  her,  but  she  would  not 
drop  out  of  the  game,  acknowledge  herself  beaten — luck 
would  turn,  she  would  get  better  cards.  To-night  she 
was  tired.  It  had  been  a  hard  scrambling  day.  Several 
times  she  could  have  cried.  Sam  was  so  stupid,  she 
could  not  make  him  understand  where  he  was  to  leave 
things  at  the  hotel — if  anything  happened  to  those  shades, 
or  to  that  salad ! 

In  the  hall  of  the  Desert  Hotel,  the  party  was  as 
sembling.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blinn  were  already  the  center 
of  a  group,  flinging  matrimonial  volleys.  Innes  could 
hear  Blinn's  loud  voice  as  she  entered  the  door:  "That 
was  before  we  were  married.  Now,  it's  very  different. 
That's  what  matrimony  does."  Every  one  knew  they 
covered  their  devotion  with  chronic  jeers.  She  steered 
toward  another  corner  where  the  Wilsons  held  court. 

"Too  bad,  isn't  it?"  Mrs.  Youngberg  advanced  to 
ward  Gerty,  who  was  looking  for  Rickard.  She  did  not 
like  to  ask  if  he  had  come. 

Howard  Blinn  broke  off  to  greet  his  hostess.  "You 
saved  our  lives  by  being  a  little  late,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Our  dinner  was  late.  It's  always  late,  since  the  Im 
provement  Club  was  organized !" 

Mrs.  Hardin's  roving  eye  scoured  the  hall.  Rickard 
was  not  there.  Patton  called  her  from  the  desk.  Some 
one  wanted  her  at  the  telephone.  It  was  Rickard,  of 
course,  at  the  office;  to  say  he  had  been  detained.  The 
fear  which  had  been  chilling  her  passed  by. 

It  was  not  Rickard  on  the  wire,  but  Mrs.  Hatfield, 
loquacious  and  coquettish.  She  urged  a  frightful  neu 
ralgia,  and  hoped  that  she  was  not  putting  her  hostess 
to  any  inconvenience  at  this  last  moment.  She  wanted 
to  prolong  the  conversation — had  the  guests  all  come? 


1 62  THE    RIVER 

Were  they  really  going?  Then  she  must  be  getting  old, 
for  a  night  like  this  dismayed  her !  Gerty  felt  her  good 
night  was  rudely  abrupt.  But  was  she  to  stand  there 
gabbling  all  night,  her  guests  waiting  ? 

She  prayed  that  Rickard  would  be  there  when  she  re 
turned.  What  a  travesty  if  the  guest  of  honor  should 
disappoint  her!  Though  he  was  not  among  the  differ 
ent  groups,  her  confidence  in  his  punctiliousness  reas 
sured  her.  She  must  hold  them  a  little  longer.  She 
flitted  gaily  from  one  standing  group  to  another;  she 
outtalked  the  jolly  Blinns.  Her  eyes  constantly  ques 
tioned  the  clock. 

"How  long  are  you  going  to  wait  for  Mrs.  Hatfield?" 
Her  husband  came  up,  protesting. 

"Mrs.  Hatfield,"  she  explained  distantly,  "is  not  com 
ing.  We  are  waiting  for  Mr.  Rickard." 

"He  didn't  come  in  on  that  train;  he's  at  the  Head 
ing."  Hardin  added  something  about  trouble  at  the  in 
take,  but  Gerty  did  not  heed.  Tom  had  known  and  had 
not  told  her  when  there  was  yet  time  to  call  it  off ! 

"A  pretty  time  to  tell  me !"  Had  he  been  looking  at 
her,  he  would  have  been  left  no  illusions.  Her  blue  eyes 
flashed  hate. 

"I  did  not  know  it  until  we  got  here.  There  was  a 
message  from  MacLean  at  the  desk,  waiting." 

MacLean  was  not  there,  either! 

"Quarreling?"  cried  Blinn,  drawing  nearer.  "I  must 
separate  husband  and  wife.  Depend  upon  me  to  take 
your  part,  Mrs.  Hardin." 

A  heroic  smile  answered  him.    A  joke,  that ! 

"We  are  all  ready,"  she  cried.  "Mrs.  Hatfield  and  Mr. 
Rickard  can  not  come."  Not  for  worlds  would  she  give 
in  to  her  desire  to  call  the  whole  grim  affair  off;  let 


THE  DRAGON  TAKES  A  HAND    163 

them  think  she  was  disappointed,  not  she.  Though  the 
world  blew  away,  she  would  go. 

She  found  herself  distributing  slips  of  mangled  quo 
tations.  The  white  slips  went  to  the  women ;  the  green 
bits  of  pasteboard  to  the  men.  She  held  a  certain  green 
card  in  her  glove :  "Leads  on  to  f ortune."  Rickard 
might  come  dashing  in  at  the  last  moment,  the  ideal 
man's  way ;  a  special,  perhaps ;  it  did  not  seem  credible 
that  he  would  deliberately  stay  away  without  sending  her 
word. 

"I've  drawn  my  own  wife!"  cried  Blinn,  with  exag 
gerated  ruefulness. 

Youngberg  was  moving  through  the  groups.  He 
could  not  find  his  half-quotation.  "Who  has  the  rest  of 
this?"  he  was  demanding. 

Gerty  read  it  over  his  shoulder.  "Gang  aft  a-gley.  Oh, 
the  best  laid  schemes.  That's  Miss  Wilson." 

In  a  burst  of  laughter,  the  company  discovered  then 
that  the  guest  of  honor  was  also  absent.  Mrs.  Hardin 
hurried  them  out  to  the  waiting  buggies. 

When  she  had  seated  the  chattering  crowd,  Gerty  dis 
covered  that  Tom  had  drawn  Mrs.  Hatfield,  and  was 
planning  a  desertion.  Blankly,  they  faced  each  other. 
"Well,  let's  get  it  over."  His  words  sounded  brutal  to 
his  wife,  whose  nerves  were  flayed  by  the  day's  vex 
ations.  Drearily,  they  drove  together  down  the  flying 
street.  The  wind  was  at  their  backs,  but  it  tore  at  their 
hats,  pulled  at  their  tempers.  Their  eyes  were  full  of 
street  dust.  Through  the  gloom,  they  could  see  the  two 
finished  words  gleaming  from  the  plate-glass  windows  of 
the  bank :  "The  Desert."  Even  dull  imaginations  could 
get  that  prophecy — the  town  blotted  out  by  flying  sand ; 
The  Desert  come  again  into  its  own. 


1 64  THE    RIVER 

A  flash  of  light  as  they  were  leaving  town  brightened 
the  thick  dust  clouds.  "What  was  that?"  cried  Gerty. 
She  was  ready  for  any  calamity  now.  "Not  lightning?" 
Again,  the  queer  light  flashed  across  the  obscured  sky. 
Tom  roused  himself  to  growl  that  he  hadn't  seen  any 
thing.  And  the  dreary  farce  went  on. 

Innes'  partner  was  young  Sutcliffe,  the  English  zan- 
jero.  He  was  in  the  quicksand  of  a  comparison  between 
English  and  American  women,  Innes  mischievously  coax 
ing  him  into  deeper  waters,  when  there  was  a  blockade 
of  buggies  ahead  of  them. 

"The  ABC  ranch,"  cried  Innes,  peering  through  the 
veil  of  dust  at  the  queer  unreal  outlines  of  fences  and 
trees.  "It's  our  first  stop." 

"Oh,  I  say,  that's  too  bad,"  began  Sutcliffe.  Innes 
was  already  on  the  road,  her  skirts  whipped  by  the  wind 
into  clinging  drapery. 

Gerty's  party  found  itself  disorganized.  Partners 
were  trying  to  find  or  lose  each  other.  "Get  in  here!" 
Innes  heard  the  voice  of  Estrada  behind  her.  He  had  a 
top  buggy.  She  hailed  a  refuge. 

"Splendid!"  she  cried.  "What  a  relief!"  Climbing 
in,  she  said:  "I  hope  this  isn't  upsetting  Gerty's  ar 
rangement." 

"Arrangement!  Look  at  them!"  The  women  were 
hastening  out  of  the  dust  swirl  into  any  haven  that 
offered.  With  little  screams  of  dismay,  they  ran  like 
rabbits  to  cover. 

Gerty  found  herself  with  Blinn.  At  the  next  stop, 
there  was  a  block  of  buggies.  "No  use  changing  again !" 
She  acknowledged  herself  beaten.  "Let's  go  on.  What 
are  they  stopping  for?"  Dismal  farce  it  all  was! 

She  was  pushing  back  her  disheartened  curls   when 


THE  DRAGON  TAKES  A  HAND    165 

the  beat  of  horses'  hoofs  back  of  them  brought  the  blood 
back  into  her  wind-chilled  cheeks.  "Rickard!"  she 
thought.  "He  must  have  come  in  a  special !"  The  gloom 
suddenly  disgorged  MacLean. 

"Hardin!    Where  is  he?" 

"What's  up?"  yelled  Blinn.  "Is  it  the  river?"  Mac- 
Lean's  face  answered  him.  His  ranch  scoured  again — 
"God  Almighty!" 

"The  river!"  screamed  the  women.  The  men  were 
surrounding  MacLean,  whose  horse  was  prancing  as  if 
with  the  importance  of  having  carried  a  Revere.  "The 
levee!"  called  MacLean.  "Where's  Hardin?"  He 
spurred  his  mare  toward  Hardin,  who  was  blacker  than 
Napoleon  at  Austerlitz. 

"You're  needed.  They're  all  needed."  The  other 
voices  broke  in,  the  men  pressing  up.  This  threatened 
them  all.  Blinn's  ranch  lay  in  the  ravaged  sixth  district. 
Nothing  would  save  him.  Youngberg  belonged  to  Water 
Company  Number  One ;  their  ditches  would  go.  Hollister 
and  Wilson,  of  the  Palo  Verde,  saw  ruin  ahead  of  them. 
Each  man  was  visualizing  the  mad  onward  sweep  of  that 
destroying  power.  Like  ghosts,  the  women  huddled  in 
the  dust-blown  road. 

"Where  is  it  now?"  demanded  Blinn. 

"It's  here,  right  on  us.  You're  all  needed  at  the  levee," 
bawled  MacLean. 

The  levee !  There  was  a  dash  for  buggies,  a  scraping 
of  wheels,  the  whinnying  of  frightened  horses.  Some 
one  recalled  the  flashes  of  light  they  had  seen  on  leaving 
town.  "What  were  those  lights — signals?" 

"From  the  water-tower."  MacLean's  voice  split  the 
wind.  "The  wires  are  all  down  between  the  Crossing 
and  the  towns.  Coronel  was  on  the  tower — he  got  the 


166  THE   RIVER 

signal  from  the  Heading — he's  been  there  each  night  for 
a  week !"  This  was  a  great  night — for  his  chief,  Rickard ! 

Gerty  Hardin  caught  the  thrill  of  his  hero-worship. 
How  splendid,  how  triumphant! 

Innes  found  herself  in  her  brother's  buggy.  His 
horse,  under  the  whip,  dashed  forward.  Suddenly  he 
pulled  it  back  on  its  haunches,  narrowly  averting  a  jam. 
"Where's  MacLean?" 

The  boy  rode  back.    "Who's  calling  me?" 

"Give  me  your  horse,"  demanded  Hardin.  "You  take 
my  sister  home." 

Gerty  Hardin's  party  was  torn  like  a  bow  of  useless 
finery.  Facing  the  wind  now,  no  one  could  talk;  no 
one  wanted  to  talk.  Each  was  threshing  out  his  own 
thoughts ;  personal  ruin  stared  them  in  the  face.  Every 
man  was  remembering  that  reckless  exposed  cut  of  Har^ 
din's;  pinning  their  hope  to  that  ridiculed  levee.  The 
horses  broke  into  a  reckless  gallop,  the  buggies  lurching 
wildly  as  they  dodged  one  another.  The  axles  creaked 
and  strained.  The  wind  tore  away  the  hats  of  the  women, 
rent  their  pretty  chiffon  veils. 

The  dusty  road  was  peopled  with  dark  formless  shapes. 
The  signals  had  spread  the  alarm ;  the  desert  world  was 
flocking  to  the  gorge  of  the  New  River,  to  the  levee. 
Gerty  was  swept  past  the  stores  which  had  gaped  at  her 
in  the  morning.  Coulter's  was  deserted.  At  Fred  Eg- 
gers',  a  candle  flickered  behind  a  green  curtain.  Gerty 
could  see  the  half  finished  sign  on  the  plate-glass  win 
dows  of  the  bank.  "The  Desert"  shone  wanly  at  her. 

The  women  were  dumped  without  ceremony  on  the 
sidewalk,  under  the  screened  bird-cage  of  the  Desert 
Hotel.  Shivering,  her  pretty  teeth  chattering,  Gerty 
Hardin  ushered  them  into  the  deserted  hall.  The  Chinese 


THE  DRAGON  TAKES  A  HAND    167 

cook  snored  away  his  vigil  in  an  armchair  by  the  open 
fire.  The  men  had  rushed  away  to  the  levee. 

"Women  must  wait,"  Gerty's  laugh  was  hysterical. 
"We  can  do  no  good  down  there."  She  threw  herself, 
conscious  of  heroineship,  into  the  ordeal  of  her  spoilt 
entertainment. 

It  was  always  an  incoherent  dream  to  Innes  Hardin, 
that  wild  ride  homeward,  the  lurching  scraping  buggies, 
the  apprehensive  silence,  this  huddling  of  women  like 
scared  rabbits  around  a  table  that  had  else  been  gay. 
The  women's  teeth  shivered  over  the  ices.  Their  faces 
looked  ghastly  by  the  light  shed  by  Gerty's  green  shades. 
She  wished  she  were  at  the  levee.  She  simply  must  go 
to  the  levee.  "I'm  going  to  get  a  wrap,"  she  threw  to 
Gerty  as  she  passed.  "I  left  it  in  the  hall." 

She  stole  through  the  deserted  office,  past  the  white 
and  silver  soda  fountain,  and  out  into  the  speeding  blur 
of  the  night.  Formless  shapes,  soft  footed,  passed  her. 
As  she  sped  past  the  French  windows  of  the  dining- 
room  she  could  get  a  view  of  the  shattered  party.  The 
candles  were  glittering;  some  overzealous  maid  had 
lighted  them  when  the  table  was  carried  into  the  dining- 
room.  No  others  could  be  found.  The  Chinese  cook  was 
that  instant  entering  with  a  large  lamp  backed  by  a  tin  re 
flector.  Mrs.  Youngberg  was  huddled  in  her  fur  cape. 
A  sight  to  laugh  over,  when  it  became  a  memory !  The 
eyes  of  several  of  the  women  were  visualizing  ruin,  Mrs. 
Blinn  among  them.  The  others  wore  sleepy  masks. 

Innes  made  a  dive  into  the  darkness.  There  was  a 
dim  outline  of  hastening  figures  in  front  of  her.  She 
could  hear  some  one  breathing  heavily  by  her  side.  They 
kept  apace,  stumbling,  occasionally,  the  moving  gloom 


168  THE    RIVER 

betraying"  their  feet.  A  man  came  running  back  toward 
the  town.  "It's  cutting  back!"  He  cried.  "Nothing  but 
the  levee  will  save  the  towns !" 

The  levee! 

The  harsh  breathing  followed  her.  As  they  passed 
the  wretched  hut  of  a  Mexican  gambler,  a  sputtering 
light  shone  out.  Innes  looked  back.  She  saw  the  wrin 
kled  face  of  Coronel,  who  had  left  his  water-tower.  His 
black  coarse  hair  was  streaming  in  the  wind,  his  mouth, 
ajar,  was  expressionless,  though  the  fulfilment  of  the 
Great  Prophecy  was  at  hand.  Beneath  the  cheek- 
splotches  of  green  and  red  paint  rested  a  curious  dignity. 
The  Indian  was  to  come  again  into  his  own. 

What  was  his  own,  she  questioned,  as  her  feet  stumbled 
over  loosened  boarding,  a  ditch  crossing  she  had  not 
seen.  More  corn,  perhaps  more  fiery  stuff  to  wash  down 
the  corn !  More  white  man's  money  in  the  brown  man's 
pocket — that,  his  happiness.  Why  should  he  not  thank 
the  gods?  His  gods  were  speaking!  For  when  the 
waters  of  the  great  river  ran  back  to  the  desert,  the 
long  ago  outraged  gods  were  no  longer  angry.  The 
towns  might  go,  but  the  great  Indian  gods  were  show 
ing  their  good  will ! 

She  joined  a  group  at  the  levee,  winding  her  veil  over 
mouth  and  forehead.  Dark  shapes  swayed  near  her.  The 
wind  was  making  havoc  of  the  mad  waters  rushing  down 
from  the  channel.  The  noise  of  wind  and  waters  was 
appalling.  Strange  loud  voices  came  through  the  din, 
of  Indians,  Mexicans;  guttural  sounds.  Men  ran  past 
her,  carrying  shovels,  pulling  sacks  of  sand ;  lanterns, 
blown  dim,  flashed  their  pale  light  on  her  chilled  cheeks. 

Not  even  the  levee,  she  knew  then,  would  save  the 
towns.  This  was  the  end. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ON    THE    LEVEE 

HARDIN  did  not  go  home  that  night.  He  was  feel 
ing  to  the  quick  the  irony  of  his  position;  his 
duty  now  to  protect  the  levee  he'd  ridiculed;  now  the 
only  hope  of  the  towns !  The  integrity  of  the  man  never 
faltered,  though  his  thoughts  ran  wild.  Like  the  re 
lentless  hounds  of  Actseon,  they  pursued  him,  barking 
at  his  vanity. 

He  started  the  anxious  ranchers  at  sacking  sand. 
Bodefeldt  ran  up  to  tell  him  that  there  was  a  hill  of  filled 
sacks  over  in  Mexicali.  "Rickard  had  a  bunch  of  In 
dians  working  for  a  week." 

The  confusion  of  the  shy  fellow  did  not  escape  Har- 
din.  Oh,  he  knew  what  Bodefeldt  was  thinking,  what 
every  one  was  saying!  They  were  all  laughing  at  him. 
The  coincidence  of  this  extraordinary  flood  had  upheld 
Rickard's  wild  guess,  haloed  his  judgment.  It  was  all 
a  piece  of  his  infernal  luck.  Sickening,  that's  what  it 
was!  His  orders  scattered.  He  ran  up  and  down  the 
levee,  giving  orders;  recalling  them  when  he  found  he 
was  repeating  Rickard's. 

This  new  humiliation,  coming  on  the  heels  of  the 
dredge  fiasco,  put  him  in  execrable  temper.  He  shouted 
his  orders  over  the  noises  of  the  night.  He  rated  the 
men,  bullied  them.  No  one  did  anything  right!  Lord, 

169 


THE   RIVER' 

what  he  had  to  put  up  wittf!  The  other  men,  the  ranch 
ers  and  engineers,  saw  in  his  excitement  certainty  of 
the  valley's  doom. 

The  wind  and  the  darkness  contributed  to  the  con 
fusion.  Eager  shovels  were  tossing  up  earth  before  any 
one  could  tell  where  the  danger  point  would  be.  The 
water  was  not  yet  high  enough  to  determine  the  place 
of  battle.  Sacked  sand  was  being  brought  over  from 
Mexicali.  Fifty  pair  of  hands  made  short  work  of  Rick- 
ard's  "Hill."  Lanterns  were  flashing  through  the  dark 
ness  like  restless  fireflies.  The  wind  and  rushing  water 
deadened  the  sound  of  the  voices.  It  was  a  battle  of 
giants  against  pygmies.  In  the  darkness,  the  giants 
threatened  to  conquer. 

At  three  in  the  morning,  a  horseman  rode  in  from 
Fassett's,  one  of  the  big  ranches  to  the  north,  cut  by  the 
New  River. 

"The  river  is  cutting  back,"  he  called  through  the  din, 
"cutting  back  toward  the  towns." 

A  turn  in  the  gorge,  a  careless  dump-pit  had  pulled 
the  river  like  a  mad  horse  back  on  its  haunches.  It 
was  kicking  back. 

"They  are  short-handed  up  there.     They  need  help." 

"Dynamite,"  cried  Silent  and  Hardin  antiphonally. 
They  happened  to  be  standing  near. 

"We  must  have  dynamite,"  bawled  Hardin.  "Are  the 
wires  down  between  here  and  Brawley?  We  must  get 
a  wire  somehow  to  Los  Angeles,  to  rush  it  down  here 
this  morning." 

"It's  here.  There  is  a  carload  on  the  siding,"  yelled 
Silent. 

Hardin  did  not  need  to  ask  by  whose  orders  it  was 
there.  An  angry  scowl  spoiled  his  face. 


ON   THE    LEVEE  171 

"Put  some  on  the  machine."    He  was  turning  away. 

Silent  called  after  him.  Did  Mr.  Hardin  think  it  was 
safe?  There  was  no  road  between  the  towns  and  Fas- 
sett's.  The  night,  the  explosive, — should  they  not  wait 
till  morning?  The  question  threw  his  late  chief  into  a 
rage. 

"Did  I  ask  you  to  take  it?"  It  was  the  opening  for 
his  fury.  "Safe!  Will  the  towns  be  safe  if  the  river 
cuts  back  here  ?  The  channel  has  got  to  be  widened,  and 
you  talk  of  your  own  precious  skin !  Wait  till  I  ask  you 
to  take  it.  Get  out  the  machine.  I'll  take  it  to  Fas- 
sett's  myself.  W^tf5\ 

Silent  left  the  levee,  smarting.  As  he  fumbled  for  the 
lanterns  hanging  in  the  shed  where  the  machine  was 
stalled,  he  lived  over  those  last  few  years;  with  Har 
din  in  the  desert.  When  had  he  ever  hesitated  over  a 
risk  of  life?  When  had  he  thought  of  his  own  safety? 
But  this  was  a  foolhardy  thing,  no  matter  who  took  the 
machine.  Daylight  would  be  here  in  a  few  hours.  The 
way  to  Fassett's,  through  the  ravaged  country,  was 
scarred  by  other  floods.  There  was  a  half-mile  of  levee 
to  be  covered ;  a  ticklish  thing  by  day  to  carry  a  ma 
chine  over  the  narrow  mound,  scraping  bottom  all  the 
time.  By  night — with  dynamite  in  the  bumping  tonneau 
it  was  a  gamble — and  the  wind  blowing  like  this.  But 
he  wouldn't  let  Hardin  take  it,  he  would  show  Hardin 
what  he  meant  by  "safe" ! 

By  the  pale  flicker  of  the  single  lantern  he  got  out 
the  long  gray  car,  nosed  like  a  hound,  filled  the  tank 
with  oil,  the  canteens  with  water  from  a  filter  in  the 
adjoining  shop.  He  backed  the  machine  out  of  the  shed 
and  sped  through  the  darkness  toward  Mexicali,  where 
the  car  of  explosives  was  isolated. 


172  THE   RIVER 

He  went  over  his  grievance  while  he  handled  the 
dangerous  stuff.  The  boss  was  taking  chances ;  that  was 
what  he  meant.  He  was  not  afraid  of  danger.  Afraid ! 

Hardin,  buttoned  up  to  the  ears,  his  soft  hat  pulled 
tight  over  his  forehead,  was  waiting  impatiently.  Here 
was  something  to  be  done;  he  coveted  the  activity. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  he  grumbled. 

"Let  me  take  it !"  pleaded  the  engineer. 

"Nonsense,  there  is  no  danger."  Hardin  saw  per 
sonal  affection  in  the  plea.  He  put  his  hand  affection 
ately  on  the  man's  shoulder. 

"But  you  are  needed  here." 

"The  trouble  is  not  here ;  it  won't  be  either,  if  we  blow 
out  the  channel.  Here,  jump  out." 

"I  want  to  go."  Silent  kept  a  stubborn  hold  on  the 
steering  gear.  He  felt  Hardin's  place  was  at  the  levee. 

"You  go  home  and  catch  a  nap ;  this  is  my  job."  He 
was  standing  on  the  step.  "Crank  her." 

There  was  nothing  for  Silent  to  do  but  to  get  out. 
Hardin  pointed  the  long  nose  of  the  car  into  the  dark 
ness.  She  was  off  like  the  greyhound  she  suggested, 
missing  a  telegraph  pole  by  half  an  inch. 

"Just  like  him,"  mused  Silent.  "The  slimmest  mar 
gins,  the  biggest  chances,  that's  Tom  Hardin/'  The 
touch  on  the  shoulder  had  dispelled  his  grouch. 

"Just  like  Hardin  to  insist  on  carrying  the  dynamite 
to  Fassett's."  Spectacular,  maybe,  like  all  of  his  im 
pulses,  but  splendid  and  fearless  as  the  man  himself. 
"He  never  knows  when  he  is  beaten,"  glowed  the  engi 
neer.  "If  this  valley  ever  comes  into  its  own,  it  will  be 
because  of  Tom  Hardin." 

"Who  is  in  charge  here?"  a  woman's  voice  was  pierc 
ing  the  racket  of  wind  and  wave. 


ON   THE    LEVEE  173 

The  dawn  was  breaking.  Down  the  New  River  he 
could  see  the  wind  whipping  the  water  into  whitecapped 
fury.  "Vicious,"  he  muttered.  "Those  heavy  waves 
play  the  Old  Harry  with  the  levee." 

"Where  is  my  brother?" 

"Miss  Hardin  I"  cried  Silent. 

"Where  is  he?"  demanded  Innes.  Her  hair  streamed 
away  from  her  face.  Her  cheeks  were  blanched.  Her 
yellow  eyes,  peering  into  the  dusk,  looked  owlish.  Her 
wind-spanked  skirts  clung  to  her  limbs.  To  Silent  she 
looked  boyish,  as  though  clipped  and  trousered.  "Where 
is  my  brother?"  she  repeated. 

Silent  told  her  without  reservations  where  he  had  gone 
and  why.  There  was  no  feminine  foolishness  about  that 
sister  of  Hardin's.  A  chip  of  the  old  block.  Funny,  the 
men  all  thought  of  her  as  Hardin's  daughter  on  ac 
count  of  the  difference  of  age.  As  to  a  comrade,  proudly, 
he  bragged  of  the  taking  of  the  dynamite  over  that  road 
less  waste. 

"Whom  did  he  leave  in  his  place?"  She  did  not  see 
him  shake  his  head.  "I  want  George  Whitaker  to  be 
sent  home.  He  is  coughing  his  head  off  down  the  levee, 
he  is  wet  to  the  skin ;  he  was  being  doctored  for  pneu 
monia  a  week  ago." 

Silent  knew,  only,  that  he  himself  was  not  in  charge ! 
Hardin  had  ordered  him  to  bed. 

"Maybe  Mr.  Estrada?"  she  hazarded. 

"He  is  not  here,  he  went  down  the  road  to  look  after 
the  track.  Hardin  went  off  in  such  a  hurry,  I  guess  he 
told  nobody,"  chuckled  the  engineer,  still  glowing. 

"Then  I'm  it!"  cried  Innes  Hardin.  "Will  you  take 
my  orders,  Silent?" 

"Sure,"  he  chuckled  again. 


174  THE   RIVER 

"Send  George  Whitaker  home.  And  not  to  report 
till  to-morrow  morning.  Say  Hardin  said  so.  You 
needn't  say  which  Hardin." 

She  pinned  up  her  blown  hair,  the  wind  fighting  her. 
Her  thoughts  would  accuse  Tom !  Perhaps  the  apparent 
confusion  was  all  well  ordered ;  perhaps  this  was  the  way 
men  worked  when  the  need  was  desperate,  when  homes 
were  at  stake!  Yet,  there  was  Tom  racing  across  the 
country  when  a  lieutenant  would  have  done  as  well. 
Was  he  losing  his  grip?  The  earthquake  episode  had 
frightened  her.  She  knew  he  lacked  discipline,  of  school, 
and  gentle  home-training.  The  struggle  with  the  wilder 
ness  had  absorbed  his  parents.  She  knew  he  was  over- 
sanguine,  careless  of  details,  careless  of  the  means  to  his 
ends.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  a  woman,  and 
fearful,  and  saw  things  in  a  womanish  way.  Perhaps 
all  strong  men,  men  who  achieved  great  results,  attacked 
them  as  Tom  did.  The  daring  chance,  for  Tom  always. 
A  corner  to  be  turned,  he  must  always  take  the  sharpest 
curve.  If  he  were  as  reckless  with  other  people's  lives 
as  he  was  with  his  own — 

The  voice  of  Silent  was  in  her  ear.  "He  is  gone.  I've 
sent  him  home." 

The  yellow  eyes  gleamed  prankishly  in  the  half  light. 
"Will  you  take  more  orders  from  me,  Silent?" 

"You're  the  captain !" 

"I  saw  Mr.  Dowker  down  there.  His  wife  is  sick. 
Send  him  home,  say  Hardin  said  so." 

She  called  after  him;  "Parrish,  too,  if  you  can  find 
him!" 

She  watched  the  whitecapped  waves  break  into  harm 
less  spray  against  the  levee.  A  little  higher,  and  those 
waves  would  not  be  harmless.  If  the  wind  kept  up,  if 


ON   THE    LEVEE  175 

those  waters  rose — ah,  these  men  would  be  needing  their 
strength  to-night! 

The  dawn  was  creeping  in  like  a  laggard  culprit.  The 
whitecaps  caught  the  light,  scattering  it  as  foam.  The 
flashing  lanterns  grew  pale;  Innes  could  discern  some 
of  the  faces.  She  saw  Coronel  wrapped  in  a  gray  blanket, 
squatting  on  the  newly-raised  bank.  His  unbound  hair 
slapped  his  old  weathered  mask.  "The  map  of  the  des 
ert  furrowed  on  his  face,"  Captain  Brandon  had  once 
said.  She  wrapped  her  coat  around  her  head. 

Silent  came  back.  "Dowker's  gone,  I  couldn't  find 
Parrish."  He  cut  his  words  off  with  a  click,  for  through 
the  rush  of  the  wind  and  water  came  the  whistle  of  a 
locomotive. 

"A  special !"  cried  Silent.  Hardin's  sister  and  his 
friend  looked  at  each  other,  the  same  thought  in  mind : 
Rickard,  in  from  the  Heading ! 

On  her  face  Silent  saw  the  same  spectacular  impulse 
which  had  flashed  over  Hardin's  features  a  short  time 
before. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "Silent,  you're  his 
friend.  Straighten  this  out.  We  can't  have  him  come 
back — spying — and  find  this."  She  waved  her  hand  to 
ward  the  disorganized  groups. 

"I'd  take  more  orders,"  suggested  the  engineer. 

"Then  send  a  third  of  them  home,  tell  them  to  come 
back  to-night  at  six.  Send  away  the  other  third,  tell 
them  to  come  back  at  noon.  Keep  the  other  shift.  Say 
you'll  have  coffee  sent  from  the  hotel,  tell  them  Hardin 
says  to  stop  wasting  stuff.  Tell  them,  oh,  tell  them 
anything  you  can  think  of,  Silent,  before  he  comes." 
Her  breakdown  was  girlish. 

She  could  hear  the  signal  of  the  locomotive ;  coming 


176  THE   RIVER 

closer.  Then  she  could  hear  the  pant  of  the  engine  as 
it  worked  up  the  grade.  It  was  a  steady  gentle  climb 
all  the  way  from  the  Junction,  two  hundred  feet  below 
sea-level,  to  the  towns  resting  at  the  level  of  the  sea.  It 
quickened  her  thought  of  the  power  of  the  river.  Noth 
ing  between  it  and  the  tracks  at  Salton.  Nothing  to 
stop  its  flow  into  that  spectacular  new  sea  whose 
basin  did  not  need  a  drop  of  the  precious  misguided  flow. 
She  could  hear  the  bells ;  now  the  train  was  coming  into 
the  station ;  she  would  not  wait  for  Silent.  She  did  not 
want  to  meet  Rickard. 

No  one  saw  her  as  she  left  the  levee.  She  passed 
Silent,  who  was  issuing  orders.  She  heard  him  say, 
"The  boss  says  so." 

She  took  the  road  by  the  railroad  sheds,  to  avoid  the 
dismissed  shifts,  moving  townward.  At  full  speed,  she 
collided  with  a  man,  rounding  the  sheds'  corner.  It  was 
Rickard.  Her  veil  had  slipped  to  her  shoulders  and  he 
saw  her  face. 

"Miss  Hardin !"  he  exclaimed.  "Whatever  are  you  do 
ing  here?" 

"I  was  looking  for  my  brother." 

"You  ought  not  to  be  out  at  night  alone  here." 

"It's  morning!" 

"With  every  Indian  in  the  country  coming  in.  I'll 
send  Parrish  with  you." 

She  recognized  Parrish  behind  him.  She  tried  to  tell 
him  that  she  knew  every  Indian  in  Mexicali,  every  Mex 
ican  in  the  twin  towns,  but  he  would  not  listen  to  her. 
"I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go  home  alone." 

She  blinked  rebellion  at  the  supplanter  of  her  brother. 
But  she  found  herself  following  Parrish.  She  took  a 
deep  pride  in  her  independence,  her  fearlessness.  Tom 


ON   THE   LEVEE  177 

let  her  go  where  she  liked.  She  had  an  impulse  to  dis 
miss  Parrish ;  every  man  was  needed,  but  he  would  obey 
Rickard's  orders.  MacLean  had  told  her  that!  "They 
don't  like  him,  but  they  mind  him!" 

Rickard  made  his  way  down  to  the  levee.  "Where 
is  Hardin  ?"  he  asked  of  every  one  he  met.  The  answer 
came  pointing  in  the  direction  where  Innes  had  stood. 

He  made  a  swift  inspection.  It  was  not  so  bad  as  he 
had  feared.  Orders  had  scattered  in  the  night;  but  it 
might  have  been  worse. 

Silent  came  up  to  explain  that  Hardin  had  gone  up 
to  Fassett's  just  a  few  minutes  ago  to  carry  dynamite. 
The  river  was  cutting  back  there.  "Good,"  cried  Rick 
ard,  "that's  bully!" 

"He  left  me  in  charge,"  glibly  lied  the  friend  of  Har 
din.  "Any  orders,  sir?" 

"Things  are  going  all  right?"  began  the  manager.  He 
stopped.  From  above  came  a  dull  roar. 

"Dynamite!"  cried  Rickard. 

The  friend  of  Hardin  had  nothing  to  say.  "I  thought 
you  said  he  went  only  a  few  minutes  ago?"  demanded 
his  chief. 

There  was  another  detonation.  Down  the  river  came 
the  booming  of  the  second  charge. 

"That's  dynamite  for  sure,"  evaded  Silent. 

"Not  a  minute  too  soon!"  declared  Rickard,  going 
back  to  his  inspection. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  WHITE  REFUGE 

THE  town  woke  to  a  matter-of-fact  day.  The  sen 
sational  aspect  of  the  runaway  river  had  passed  with 
the  night.  The  word  spread  that  the  flood  waters  were 
under  control;  that  the  men  had  gone  home  to  sleep, 
so  the  women  got  breakfast  as  usual,  and  tidied  their 
homes.  The  Colorado  was  always  breaking  out,  like  a 
naughty  child  from  school.  Never  would  the  cry  of 
"The  river!"  fail  to  drag  the  blood  from  their  cheeks. 
But  relief  always  came;  the  threatened  danger  was  al 
ways  averted,  and  these  pioneer  women  had  acquired 
the  habit  of  swift  reaction. 

That  afternoon,  Mrs.  Youngberg  was  to  entertain  at 
the  ABC  ranch  the  ladies  of  the  Improvement  Club. 
It  was  a  self-glorification  meeting,  to  celebrate  the  plant 
ing  of  trees  in  the  streets  of  Calexico,  and  to  plan  the 
campaign  of  their  planting.  Mrs.  Blinn  drove  into  town 
to  get  Gerty  Hardin.  Neither  woman  had  seen  her 
husband  since  the  interrupted  drive  the  night  before. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  should  go,"  Mrs.  Hardin 
hesitated,  her  face  turned  toward  the  ABC  ranch. 
"Perhaps  there  is  something  we  could  do." 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  levee."  Mrs.  Blinn's 
jolly  face  had  lost  its  apprehension.  "The  water  has 
not  risen  an  inch  since  breakfast.  Most  of  the  men  have 
been  sent  home.  When  Howard  didn't  come  home  to 


THE   WHITE   REFUGE  179 

lunch,  I  grew  anxious.  But  Mr.  Rickard  says  he  sent 
him  to  Fassett's  with  more  dynamite." 

"Dynamite!"  shuddered  Gerty.  "Aren't  you  terribly 
afraid?"  So  Rickard  was  in  town!  Her  breath  flut 
tered.  Strange,  how  her  spirits  rose! 

'Mrs.  Blinn  wondered  if  the  wife  was  the  only  per 
son  in  the  town  who  had  not  heard  of  Hardin's  melo 
dramatic  ride  that  morning.  She  decided  that  the  story 
had  been  purposely  withheld.  She  would  not  be  the  one 
to  inform  her. 

"Would  you  mind — "  Gerty  laid  a  well-kept  hand  on 
her  friend's  knee.  "Would  you  mind  turning  back?  I'd 
be  more  comfortable  if  I  could  see  Tom  or  Mr.  Rickard ; 
hear  what  they  think  about  it." 

"But  Mr.  Rickard  told  me,"  began  Mrs.  Blinn. 

"I'm  worried  about  Tom,"  cried  Gerty,  flushing. 
Danger  to  Tom  was  a  new  thought.  With  Rickard  in 
town  the  levee  beckoned  irresistibly.  Were  it  Mrs. 
Youngberg,  with  her  sharp  eyes,  or  Innes,  she  would  not 
dare,  but  Mrs.  Blinn  was  dull;  she  would  never  suspect 
anything ! 

Mrs.  Blinn's  devotion  to  her  husband,  who  was  the 
butt  of  her  fond  ridicule,  and  the  center  of  her  universe, 
made  her  believe  all  women  like  herself.  Gerty's  high 
color,  she  thought,  meant  anxiety. 

"Of  course  we'll  turn  back." 

"There  he  is,"  thrilled  Gerty. 

Mrs.  Blinn's  eye  swept  the  street.  "Where?  Your 
husband?" 

"No,  Mr.  Rickard.  Passing  the  bank.  There,  he's 
stopped.  I  wonder  if  he  is  going  in?  You  call  him, 
Mrs.  Blinn." 

Obediently  her  friend  hailed  Rickard.    He  turned  back 


180  THE    RIVER 

to  the  windy  street.  He  felt  boyish :  the  crisis  was  giv 
ing  him  mercurial  feet.  He  loved  the  modern  battle. 
Elements  to  pit  one's  brains  against,  wits  against  force ! 

Gerty  Hardin's  face  was  flushing  and  paling.  'The 
river/'  she  faltered.  "Should  we  be  alarmed,  Mr.  Rick- 
ard?" 

Smiling,  he  assured  her  she  should  not  be  alarmed ; 
the  levees  would  protect  the  towns. 

She  found  it  hard  to  meet  his  eyes;  they  had  always 
made  her  conscious  in  the  old  Lawrence  days.  They 
suggested  controlled  amusement,  a  critical  detachment. 
She  used  to  hunt  for  the  cause.  Now  she  was  expe 
rienced,  yet  his  smile  still  gave  her  that  old  hampered 
sense  of  embarrassment. 

"She  is  anxious  about  her  husband,"  Mrs.  Blinn  had 
to  explain.  Gerty  bit  her  lip.  What  a  parrot  Mrs.  Blinn 
was! 

"Mr.  Hardin  is  up  at  Fassett's  ranch,  he  will  be  coming 
back  to-day.  I  told  your  husband,  Mrs.  Blinn,  to  catch 
a  nap  and  then  relieve  Mr.  Hardin." 

Gerty  found  a  significance  in  his  words,  he  had  said 
"Mr.  Hardin,"  and  "your  husband,  Mrs.  Blinn."  It  was 
enough  to  weave  dreams  around. 

"A  nap,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Blinn,  "why,  he  didn't  come 
home." 

"I  think  I  saw  him  go  into  the  men's  quarters."  Dis 
tinctly  Rickard  had  heard  Blinn's  jolly  voice  as  he  had 
left  the  levee:  "If  I'm  to  catch  a  nap,  I'll  not  go  home. 
No  sleeping  there!" 

"We  can't  do  anything,  Mr.  Rickard,  to  help?"  urged 
Gerty  Hardin,  her  voice  tremulous. 

"I  hope  we  won't  have  to  call  on  you  at  all." 


THE   WHITE    REFUGE  181 

There  was  no  excuse  to  linger.  Gerty  threw  a  wistful 
little  smile  at  parting. 

The  brown  mare's  head  was  turned  toward  the  country. 
Rickard  turned  back  to  the  bank. 

He  looked  again  at  the  plate-glass  windows.  Two 
words  were  finished,  The  Desert,  brilliant  in  gold- 
leaf.  The  rest  of  the  sign  still  stood  in  its  dim  skeleton ! 
Boyish  mischievous  blood  raced  in  his  veins  that  morn 
ing.  He  went  in. 

"Mr.  Petrie  in?"  he  asked  the  cashier.  Young  Oliver 
said  he  was  not.  "He  is  tying  vines  to-day." 

"When  are  you  going  to  finish  that  window?" 

"Why,  after  this  flood,  I  guess,  Mr.  Rickard."  The 
question  was  unexpected.  Every  one  knew  Casey  now 
by  sight.  The  cashier  glanced  at  his  tie.  Casey  had 
forgotten  his  pin  that  morning. 

"That's  the  way  it  looked  to  me.  There  is  too  much 
desert  in  this  town,  Desert  Hotel,  Desert  Reclamation 
Company,  and  now  this — The  Desert!  If  you  would 
only  put  "bank"  on  it !  It  looks  as  though  you  thought 
you  were  going  to  be  washed  out,  as  if  you  were  saving 
your  gold-leaf.  A  bank  has  got  to  keep  up  a  bold  front, 
if  it's  only  plate-glass,  Mr.  Cashier." 

"Hold  on!"  called  young  Oliver.  "Wait  a  minute, 
Mr.  Rickard.  I  guess  you  did  not  understand  what  I 
meant.  There  is  no  one  to  finish  this  lettering !  The  man 
who  was  doing  it  owns  a  ranch  over  in  Wistaria.  He 
is  the  only  man  who  can  do  it.  He  is  down  at  the  river, 
fighting  to  save  his  crop." 

"Then  I'd  finish  it  myself*,"  said  Rickard,  "or  get  some 
one  down  from  Los  Angeles  who  could,"  and  left  the 
bank. 


182  THE   RIVER 

A  sign  hanging  from  a  neighboring  door,  "For  Sail," 
caught  his  eye. 

The  owner  of  the  store  peered  out  at  the  group  of 
giggling  Indians.  "Fried  Eggs,"  as  the  irreverent  young 
engineers  had  dubbed  him,  waved  them  away  from  an 
empty  crate.  It  was  not  a  bad  simile,  thought  Rickard, 
smiling  at  the  orange-colored  mop  which  crowned  the 
albumen-like  whiteness  of  the  house-bleached  face  of 
Fred  Eggers.  He  stopped  to  watch  the  man's  queer 
antics.  From  shelf  to  counter  he  bounced,  an  anxious 
eye  on  his  open  crate  on  the  platform  where  the  group 
of  covetous  squaws  and  bucks  encroached.  Rickard  was 
vastly  amused.  Eggers  waddled  out  of  the  door,  ob 
scured  by  his  bales  of  brilliant  calico.  He  waved  back 
the  Indians.  He  threw  his  bundle  into  the  crate,  and 
sidled  into  the  store  for  another  load,  his  eyes  still  chal 
lenging  the  Indians.  His  distress  was  comical.  They 
were  his  best  customers;  he  must  not  drive  them  away, 
but  he  could  not  trust  them.  He  snatched  up  a  bolt  of 
blue  and  white  gingham,  and  was  back  on  the  platform. 
"Stand  back,  stand  back,"  he  urged.  "Don't  you  see  that 
you  are  in  my  way?" 

They  giggled  maddeningly. 

The  man's  distress  was  maudlin.  He  jumped  sidewise 
into  his  store,  picking  up  his  scattered  stock  by  finger 
sense  only,  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  squaws.  Haste,  con 
cern,  were  written  all  over  the  corpulent  unwieldy  body, 
in  the  unlined  pasty  face  of  "Fried  Eggs." 

"Moving  away,  Mr.  Eggers?"  Rickard  called  out  to 
him. 

It  had  been  a  long  time  since  he  had  been  dignified  by 
that  name.  He  turned  to  answer,  and  in  that  instant  a 
swarthy  Amazon  snatched  a  small  roll  of  turkey  red 


THE    WHITE   REFUGE  183 

calico,  and  hid  it  under  her  amply  ruffled  skirt.     He  did 
not  see  his  loss. 

"I'm  getting  ready  to  move  if  I  have  to.  The  river 
don't  look  good  to  me,  that's  sure."  He  shot  a  quick 
glance  of  suspicion  at  the  blank-faced  Indians,  snicker 
ing  by  the  door.  The  bucks  had  brilliant  bandannas 
wound  around  their  mud-crusted  heads.  The  black  stiff 
hair  of  the  women  streamed  in  the  wind  which  puffed 
their  skirts  into  balloons. 

"It  cost  me  three  thousand,  the  lot,  the  shop  and  the 
stock.  I'd  take  a  thousand." 

"I'd  give  you  that,"  Rickard  began  roguishly. 
"Done!"  cried  Fred  Eggers. 

"But"  objected  the  newcomer,  "it  would  be  taking 

a  mean  advantage  of  you.    You're  playing  sure  to  lose." 

Eggers  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  crate  and  looked  at 

the  man  who  had  said  he  would  give  him  a  thousand 

for  his  goods. 

"If  you  stay  and  the  river  ruins  your  stock  you  will 
probably  save  your  store;  you'll  surely  keep  your  lot." 
Eggers  shook  his  head.  "You'll  probably  lose  nothing, 
the  water  is  not  coming  up  here.  If  you  sell  to  me, 
for  a  thousand,  or  to  any  one  else  you're  fixed  to  lose 
two.  Oh,  stay  and  bluff  it,  Eggers." 

So  it  was  only  a  joke,  then.  "You  won't  buy  it," 
the  house-whitened  face  was  crestfallen. 

"You  won't  sell,  if  you  take  time  to  think  it  over," 
called  Rickard,  moving  on. 

Eggers  felt  something  moving  behind  him.  A  squaw 
drew  back  from  the  crate.  One  hand  was  lost  under 
her  flowing  cloak  of  gaudy  colored  handkerchiefs. 

"Stop  that,"  he  yelled.  "Here  you  Indians,  vamose. 
D'ye  hear  me?  Vamose." 


184  THE   RIVER 

The  group  of  Indians  drew  back  but  only  a  few 
steps,  giggling.  The  sidling  motion  began  again.  Rick 
ard,  laughing,  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  Eggers'  absurd 
dilemma. 

On  the  morning-glory-covered  veranda  o'f  the  adobe 
offices  of  the  Desert  Reclamation  Company,  Ogilvie  was 
waiting. 

"I've  been  looking  everywhere  for  you,  Mr.  Rickard." 
His  tone  was  sepulchral  and  foreboding. 

"It's  a  big  place,  the  towns.  Hard  to  find  any  one, 
unless  it's  an  accident."  He  made  for  his  office,  fol 
lowed  by  Ogilvie.  Rickard,  who  had  had  two  hours  of 
sleep,  felt  refreshed  and  rollicking.  This  was  some  fun ! 
These  dismal  fearful  citizens!  He  and  Marshall  would 
show  them  what  a  railroad  force  could  do! 

He  threw  himself  into  his  swivel  chair  and  looked  up 
at  the  expert  accountant  whose  blue-veined  hands  were 
describing  circles  with  his  straw  hat. 

"I  think,"  plunged  Ogilvie,  "that  this  is  no  place  for 
the  papers  of  the  company." 

"No?" 

"They  ought  to  be  in  Los  Angeles,"  stammered  the 
accountant,  forgetting  his  speech. 

"If  I'm  not  mistaken,  you  persuaded  them  contrarily 
a  few  months  ago!" 

Ogilvie  squirmed.  "Oh,  but  the  flood," — his  pallid 
skin  showed  a  flexibility  that  almost  suggested  anima 
tion.  "That  alters  everything." 

"The  flood?    Why,  I  think  we  can  fix  that." 

"I  may  go?" 

"No,  I  did  not  say  you  might  go.  I  agree  with  you 
that  the  papers  belong  here,  where  we  may  have  easy 


THE   WHITE   REFUGE  185 

access  to  them  instead  of  having  to  go  to  Los  Angeles 
every  time  we  want  to  have  a  question  of  history  or 
authority  answered." 

The  man  whose  woozling  had  come  to  nothing  cleared 
his  throat.  "This  office  is  not  safe — " 

"I  said  I'd  fix  that." 

"I'd  like  to  write  to  Los  Angeles,  telling  them  about 
the  flood.  The  wires  are  down — " 

"You  don't  need  authority  from  Los  Angeles.  I'll 
fix  you  up.  You  know  that  rise,  east  of  the  town? 
Back  of  the  school  ?  I'll  have  a  tent  rigged  up  there — " 

"The  wind,"  objected  the  accountant. 

"The  wind  won't  hurt  the  papers.  I'll  send  up  a  safe 
and  a  bed." 

"A  safe  suggests  money,  valuables — the  Indians !"  mur 
mured  Ogilvie. 

"I'll  give  you  a  gun."  Rickard  was  enjoying  himself. 
The  fellow  was  a  driveling  coward.  MacLean's  word 
fitted  him  like  a  glove:  woozling! 

That  afternoon  Rickard  was  not  too  busy  to  order 
a  tent  stretched  on  the  rise  back  of  the  schoolhouse. 
It  was  not  all  mischief!  The  office  building  might  go! 
A  safe  was  lugged  across  town.  Ogilvie  dismally  bossed 
the  proceedings.  The  platform  must  be  tight;  he  men 
tioned  snakes.  He  wanted  a  spider,  but  there  was  neither 
lumber  nor  men  to  spare ;  he  spoke  of  wind-storms.  He 
wanted  double  doors,  one  of  screen  wire ;  he  had  a  good 
deal  to  say  about  flies. 

Toward  evening  an  iron  bed  was  hauled  to  the  tent 
which  the  younger  engineers,  fresh  from  their  day's 
rest,  had  spied  and  already  christened  the  White  Refuge. 
Ogilvie  showed  the  two  impassive  Mexicans  why  it 


1 86  THE    RIVER 

should  be  placed  so  that  his  feet  pointed  north ;  he  ex 
plained  thoroughly  about  magnetic  currents.  There,  they 
left  him,  with  his  papers. 

The  disappointed  tenant  of  the  White  Refuge  sat 
down  on  the  foot  of  his  bed,  and  dismally  reviewed 
the  situation.  The  hurried  platform  of  the  tent  was 
creaking  ominously.  The  canvas  walls  sagged  and 
strained  against  the  wind.  He  rehearsed  the  situation. 

The  burning  of  San  Francisco  had  flooded  the  south 
ern  part  of  the  state  with  clerks  and  accountants;  to 
Los  Angeles  they  had  come  in  droves.  He  could  not 
leave  the  towns,  defying  Rickard,  and  expect  to  find 
another  place  with  the  Overland  Pacific  Company.  He 
wished,  in  deep  gloom,  that  he  had  not  bought  those 
hundred  shares  in  the  smaller  organization.  It  had  ap 
peared  to  him  as  a  crowning  bit  of  diplomacy,  and  put 
him,  he  thought,  on  the  same  basis  as  the  directors, 
Hardin,  Gifford  and  the  others.  But  it  had  left  him 
strapped.  He  had  had  to  borrow  to  make  up  the  hun 
dred  shares.  He  had  only  just  paid  that  debt.  The 
Desert  Bank  held  less  than  fifty  dollars  to  his  credit. 
That  sum  between  him  and  poverty!  He  decided  to 
brave  it  out,  though  physical  discomfort  hurt  him  like 
pain. 

He  listened  to  the  rising  of  the  wind.  The  worst 
storm,  old-timers  had  told  him,  in  fifteen  years. 

"What  was  that?"  He  bounced  up  from  his  bed. 
Hardin's  cannonading  shook  his  frail  tent.  He  sat  down 
again.  He  remembered  a  performance  given  by  Edwin 
Booth  in  Boston.  Lear,  it  was.  He  had  insisted  that 
the  storm  scene  was  grotesquely  exaggerated.  He  could 
not  hear  the  actors'  voices  over  the  storm!  Now,  he 
revised  his  criticism.  The  man  who  had  staged  that 


THE    WHITE    REFUGE  187 

play  had  been  in  the  desert ;  that  desert.  It  was  a  fear 
ful  night. 

He  decided  that  it  was  not  safe  to  undress,  so  he 
threw  himself  across  his  painted  bed.  Every  few  min 
utes  the  deep  detonations  of  Hardin's  charges  up  at 
Fassett's  ranch  jarred  the  platform. 

Down  at  the  levee,  the  night-shifts  were  piling  brush, 
dragging  it  to  threatened  points  where  the  lapping  waves 
broke  over  the  levee;  sacking  sand,  piling  it  in  heaps. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  gorge,  Rickard  was  blowing 
out  the  west  channel  to  let  the  increasing  flood  waters 
through.  Up  the  gorge,  but  below  Fassett's  ranch  now, 
following  the  retreating  platoons  of  the  river,  Hardin 
was  toiling,  directing  his  men.  He  had  refused  to  listen 
to  Blinn.  Sleep,  with  the  river  cutting  back  like  that, 
hazarding  the  valley?  Rest?  He  couldn't  rest  with 
that  noise  in  his  ears.  Why,  man,  this  spells  ruin! 

The  wind  rose  to  a  gale.  Ogilvie's  tent  bellied  and 
swelled.  The  waves  were  blowing  over  the  levee.  At 
midnight,  the  alarm  was  sounded.  The  sleeping  shifts 
scrambled  out  of  their  beds,  full  dressed,  and  rode  or 
ran  down  to  the  river.  The  bells  of  the  two  churches 
kept  ringing.  Pale  women  and  children  followed  the 
men  down  to  the  embankment.  There  was  work  for 
every  one  that  night.  Men  were  hustling  like  mad  to 
raise  the  levee  an  inch  above  the  rising  fury  of  the  river. 
The  women  rushed  back  to  their  homes,  bringing  bas 
kets,  old  tins,  coal-oil  cans,  anything  to  scoop  or  carry 
earth.  They  dragged  down  worn-out  clothes,  bags  of 
scraps,  fire-wood;  they  were  fighting  now  for  their  fu 
ture. 

Men  stood  a  few  feet  apart  measuring  each  white- 
foamed  wave  to  be  ready  when  it  should  strike  the  bank. 


1 88  THE    RIVER 

Wired  with  hog-fencing  on  the  river  side,  the  long  tim 
bers  chained  in  place  to  take  the  blows  of  the  waves, 
the  levee  threatened  to  melt  before  each  rush  of  the 
river.  Shovels  stood  at  attention  to  throw  earth  on  each 
new  break ;  to  raise  the  levee  an  inch  above  the  lapping 
waters.  Earth  could  not  now  be  wasted.  The  women 
were  cautioned  to  conserve  their  ammunition.  Teams 
from  the  ranches  brought  in  hay ;  wagon-loads  of  brush 
for  the  dikes. 

Down  the  stream  rushed  masses  of  debris;  logs,  sec 
tions  of  fence,  railroad  ties.  Every  eye  on  the  bank 
followed  their  course.  Where  would  that  floating  wreck 
age  lodge?  Long  poles  jumped  to  shove  off  into  the 
stream  the  drift  which  must  not  be  allowed  to  lodge, 
to  impede  that  stream  for  an  instant.  Swift  eyes,  swift 
hands,  needed  that  night!  And  all  night  long  into  the 
gray  of  the  morning,  over  the  roar  of  the  rushing  water, 
and  the  whistling  of  the  demons  of  the  wind,  boomed 
the  dynamite  at  Fassett's.  In  the  White  Refuge,  Ogil- 
vie  miserably  slept. 


CHAPTER  XX 

OPPOSITION 

THE  second  night  of  the  flood,  the  women  of  the 
towns  dragged  brush  and  filled  sacks  for  the  men 
to  carry.  It  was  past  midnight  when  Innes  Hardin  left 
the  levee.  While  her  feet  and  fingers  had  toiled,  her 
mind  had  been  fretting  over  Tom.  Two  nights,  and 
no  rest !  It  was  told  by  men  who  came  down  the  river 
how  Hardin  was  heroically  laboring.  She  yearned  to 
go  to  him;  perhaps  he  would  stop  for  a  few  hours  to 
her  entreaty.  But  an  uncertain  trail  across  country, 
with  the  dust-laden  wind  in  her  face?  She  decided  to 
wait  for  the  dawn.  A  snatched  sleep  first,  but  who 
would  call  her?  She  would  sleep  for  hours,  so  weary 
every  muscle.  Her  mind  fixed  on  Sam  as  the  only  man 
in  town  who  had  time  to  saddle  a  horse  for  a  woman. 

She  went  in  search  of  him.  She  found  that  the  long 
adobe  office  building  had  already  taken  on  the  look  of 
defeat,  of  ruin.  The  casements  had  been  torn  from  the 
partitions;  the  doors  and  windows  were  out.  The  fur 
niture  had  been  hauled  up  to  the  White  Refuge  for 
safety.  She  went  hunting  through  the  ghoulish  gloom 
for  the  darky,  turning  her  lantern  in  every  dark  cor 
ner.  She  knew  that  she  would  find  him  sleeping. 

Then  she  heard  steps  on  the  veranda.  She  ran 
toward  them,  expecting  to  see  Sam.  She  swung  her 

189 


190  THE    RIVER 

lantern  full  on  two  figures  mounting  the  shallow  steps. 
Rickard  was  with  her  sister-in-law. 

"Oh,  excuse  me!"  she  blurted  blunderingly.  Of 
course  Gerty  would  take  a  wrong  intention  from  the 
stupid  words! 

The  blue  eyes  met  those  of  Innes  with  defiance.  It 
was  as  though  she  had  spoken :  "Well,  think  what  you 
will  of  it,  you  Hardins!  I  don't  care  what  you  think 
of  me!" 

What  indeed  did  she  think  of  it?  Why  should  she 
feel  like  the  culprit  before  these  two,  her  words  desert 
ing  her?  It  was  Gerty's  look  that  made  her  feel  guilty, 
as  though  she  had  been  spying.  To  meet  them  together, 
here  at  midnight,  why  should  not  they  feel  ashamed? 
She  had  done  nothing  wrong.  And  Tom  down  yonder 
fighting — and  they  make  his  absence  a  cover  for  their 
rendezvous — 

"I'm  looking  for  Sam !"  The  effort  behind  the  words 
turned  them  into  an  oratorical  challenge. 

"So  are  we.  I  want  to  send  him  home  with  Mrs. 
Hardin.  She's  worn  out." 

"She  can  go  home  with  me.  I  am  going  directly. 
As  soon  as  I  give  a  message  to  Sam."  She  instantly 
regretted  her  words,  abruptly  halting.  It  came  to  her 
that  Rickard  would  insist  upon  delivering  her  message. 
Of  course,  he  would  oppose  her  going.  Some  petty 
reason  or  other.  She  knew  from  the  men  that  he  was 
oppositional,  that  he  liked  to  show  his  power.  Not 
safe,  he  would  say,  or  the  horse  was  needed,  or  Sam  too 
busy  to  wait  on  her ! 

"You  can  not  go  home  alone,  you  two.  The  town 
is  full  of  strange  Indians.  Give  me  your  lantern,  Miss 
Hardin ;  I'll  rout  out  that  darky." 


OPPOSITION  191 

Rebelliously  she  gave  him  the  lantern.  The  light 
turned  full  on  her  averted  angry  eyes. 

A  haughty  Thusnelda  followed  him. 

Sam  was  discovered  asleep  in  the  only  room  where 
the  windows  had  not  yet  been  attacked.  His  head  rested 
on  a  bundle  of  sacked  trees  which  the  ladies  of  the 
Improvement  Club  had  planned  to  plant  the  next  day. 
Deep  snores  betrayed  his  refuge. 

"Here,  Sam!  I  want  you  to  take  these  ladies  home. 
Chase  yourself.  They've  been  working  while  you've 
slept.  I  thought  you'd  have  all  these  windows  out  by 
now." 

Gerty  had  to  supply  the  courtesy  for  two.  She  told 
Mr.  Rickard  in  her  appealing  way  that  he  had  been 
very  kind;  that  she  "would  have  been  frightened  to 
death  to  go  home  alone." 

Innes  had  to  say  something!  "Good  night!"  The 
words  had  an  insulting  ring. 

The  wind  covered  a  passionate  silence,  as  the  two 
women,  followed  by  Sam,  yawning  and  stretching,  made 
their  way  down  the  shrieking  street.  "It  was  true," 
Innes  was  thinking.  She  had  at  last  stumbled  on  the 
rout,  but  it  was  not  a  matter  of  personal,  but  moral 
untidiness ;  not  a  carelessness  of  pins  or  plates,  of  tapes 
or  dishes.  It  was  far  worse;  a  slackness  of  ethics.  It 
meant  more  unhappiness  for  Tom. 

As  she  put  her  foot  on  the  step  leading  to  her  tent, 
it  discovered  something,  bulky,  resistant. 

"Sam,"  she  cried.    "Comeback!" 

Both  Sam  and  Mrs.  Hardin  came  running  from  dif 
ferent  directions.  An  Indian,  dead-drunk,  lay  sprawling 
across  her  steps. 

"Oh,  suppose  we  had  come  alone?"  moaned  Gerty. 


192  THE   RIVER 

"Well,  we  didn't,"  retorted  her  sister  with  intentional 
rudeness.  "What  can  you  do  with  him,  Sam?" 

It  was  a  half-hour  before  Sam  could  get  the  reeling 
Cocopah  started  toward  Mexicali. 

"Don't  forget  to  call  me  at  five!"  cried  Innes  after 
him. 

Her  aching  muscles  told  her  that  she  could  not  have 
slept  four  hours  when  the  darky  was  back,  knocking 
at  her  door. 

"All  right,"  she  pulled  herself  together.  "I'll  be  out 
in  a  minute." 

"I'll  have  to  hold  him,  Miss  Innes,"  came  the  negro 
voice  through  the  screen  door.  "He'll  get  all  tangled 
up  in  the  rope.  The  winds  got  him  all  skittish." 

She  came  out,  rubbing  her  eyes ;  her  khaki  suit  creased 
where  she  had  lain  in  it.  She  asked  him  if  he  had 
seen  her  brother. 

Sam,  whom  sleep  had  been  occupying,  answered  eva 
sively.  "I'm  not  looking  for  him  yet-a-way,  Miss  Innes ! 
The  river's  cuttin'  back,  mighty  fas',  they  say.  A  third 
of  a  mile  in  twenty-fo'  hours.  If  it  keeps  up  that-away, 
it'll  be  on  us  right  soon.  Mr.  Hardin  he's  not  a-comin' 
back  so  long's  he's  got  that  there  river  to  fight." 

"I'm  going  after  him.  He's  got  to  stop  for  me. 
Don't  tell  any  one,  Sam,  where  I've  gone." 

"You  oughtn't  to  be  goin'  alone,  Miss  Innes,"  he 
called  after  her  loping  horse.  "The  new  boss  wouldn't 
like  it.  He's  mighty  careful  about  womenfolk!" 

She  sent  a  mocking  grimace  over  her  shoulder.    "Pff !" 

Sam  grinned.  "If  she  ain't  jes'  the  spit  of  her 
brother !"  His  pace  lagged.  It  had  been  a  hard  night's 
work! 

Innes'  horse  loped  through  the  silent  streets. 


OPPOSITION  193 

"I'll  run  past  the  levee ;  perhaps  Tom  has  come  back." 
It  occurred  to  her  that  there  might  be  a  message  at  the 
hotel.  She  pulled  on  her  left  rein,  and  swept  past  the 
deserted  adobe. 

The  gorge  of  the  New  River  was  but  a  rod  or  so 
now  from  the  west  side.  Sam  was  right.  If  the  scour 
ing  out  of  the  channel  could  not  be  kept  to  the  farther 
bank,  the  towns  must  go.  The  levee  wouldn't  help  them 
then. 

She  knew  the  danger;  she  had  heard  the  engineers 
talk  with  Tom.  The  gradient  from  Yuma  to  the  Basin 
was  four  feet  to  the  mile,  in  la'nd  which  corroded  like 
sugar.  The  very  thing  which  had  helped  them  in  their 
initial  labor  of  canal  building  would  militate  against  the 
safety  of  the  valley  now,  with  the  marauding  Dragon 
at  large. 

As  she  reined  in  her  horse,  Rickard  stepped  out  on 
the  sidewalk.  He,  too,  was  heavy-eyed  from  a  snatched 
nap. 

"Were  you  looking  for  me?" 

The  scorn  in  the  girl's  face  told  him  that  his  question 
was  stupid.  For  him! 

"Has  my  brother  come  back?" 

He  said  he  did  not  know.  "You  can  see,  I  have  been 
dreaming!"  She  would  not  smile  back  at  him,  but  rode 
off  toward  the  levee.  Rickard  stood  watching  her. 

Down  the  street,  Fred  Eggers  was  opening  his  store. 
She  could  see  two  Indians  peering  in  through  the  open 
door. 

Was  this  the  river?  West  of  the  levee,  a  sea  of 
muddy  water  spread  over  the  land.  There  was  yet  a 
chance  to  save 'the  towns,  the  town,  she  corrected  her 
self,  as  her  eye  fell  on  the  Mexican  village  across  the 


194  THE    RIVER 

ditch.  For  Mexicali  was  doomed.  Some  of  the  mud- 
huts  had  already  fallen;  the  water  was  running  close  to 
the  station-house. 

She  saw  Wooster  standing  near,  calculating  the  dis 
tance,  the  time,  perhaps,  before  the  new  station  would  go. 
Over  the  door,  in  freshly  painted  letters,  were  the  words 
— "Ferro  Carril  de  Baja  California."  To  the  east,  a 
few  feet  only  away,  was  one  of  the  monuments  of  the 
series  placed  by  the  engineers  of  the  Gadsen  survey. 
They  marched  from  Yuma  to  the  sea  in  the  path  of 
the  old  Santa  Fe  trail,  marking  on  the  way  the  grave 
of  many  a  gold-seeker. 

She  hailed  Wooster.  Ruin  was  presaged  in  the  lines 
of  his  forehead. 

"Pretty  bad?"  she  cried. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Is  Tom  back?" 

"He's  over  there,  now.  Fighting  like  all  possessed. 
He'll  work  till  he  drops."  Wooster  was  proud  of  that 
method. 

"We  all  know  Tom!"  Her  pride  sprang  up.  "But 
he's  got  to  stop  for  a  while.  I'm  going  up  after  him." 

"Not  if  my  name's  Wooster.  I'll  go.  He'll  mind 
me."  What  if  he  were  dropping,  himself,  with  sleep 
and  fatigue  ?  It  was  a  chance  to  serve  Hardin ;  to  bring 
a  smile  of  gratitude  to  the  eyes  of  this  little  comrade 
of  the  desert,  whom  the  engineers  adored  in  their  sev 
eral  fashions.  Wooster's  worship  was  louder  than  the 
others ;  the  younger  men  shyer,  but  more  fervent. 
Wooster  found  her  calm  boyish  eyes  beautiful,  but  not 
disturbing.  But  she  was  a  Hardin;  and  a  pretty  one. 
Wooster  would  serve  a  Hardin,  or  a  pretty  woman, 
were  his  last  hour  come. 


OPPOSITION  195 

"Can  you?"  she  cried;  meaning — "Would  you  be  so 
good  ?" 

"Can  I?  He'll  mind  me,"  bragged  Wooster.  His 
small  bright  eyes  snapped  over  some  recollections.  "I've 
made  him  rest  before  when  he  didn't  want  to.  I  can  do 
it  again." 

"It's  terribly  good  of  you,  but  I  mean,  can  you  get 
away?" 

"I'm  through  here."  He  omitted  to  say  that  he  was 
to  report  at  six  in  the  evening.  "I'll  send  him  back 
to  you,  Miss  Hardin." 

"You're  terribly  good,"  she  repeated. 

She  watched  the  flowing  river,  swollen  with  wreck 
age.  She  saw,  with  comprehension,  a  section  of  a  fence ; 
somebody's  crop  gone.  There  was  a  railway  tie,  another ! 
The  river  was  eating  up  Estrada's  new  road-bed?  A 
cry  broke  from  her  as  a  mesquit  on  the  coffee-colored 
tide  caught  on  a  buried  snag.  The  current  swirled 
dangerously  around  it.  Instantly,  the  water  rose  to 
ward  the  top  of  the  levee.  Men  came  running  to  pry 
away  the  tree.  A  minute  later,  it  was  dancing  down 
the  stream.  They  raised  the  bank  against  the  pressing 
lapping  waves.  There,  the  tree  had  stuck  again.  They 
ran  down  the  levee  with  their  long  poles.  Each  time 
that  happened,  unless  the  obstruction  were  swiftly  dis 
lodged,  she  knew  it  meant  an  artificial  fall  somewhere, 
a  quick  scouring  out  of  the  channel.  The  men  were 
working  like  silent  parts  of  a  big  machine;  the  confu 
sion  of  the  first  night  was  gone.  From  their  faces  one 
would  not  guess  that  their  fortunes,  their  homes,  hung 
on  the  subduing  of  that  indomitable  force  which  had 
not  yet  known  defeat,  which  had  turned  back  explorer 
and  conquistador.  Ah,  there  was  the  lurking  fear  of 


196  THE   RIVER 

it!  Victory  still  lay  to  its  credit;  the  other  column  was 
blank. 

"Mr.  Parrish,"  she  called. 

A  man  on  the  bank  paused,  shovel  in  hand. 

She  spurred  her  horse  abreast  of  him. 

"How  is  your  wife?" 

"Pretty  bad.  I  had  to  leave  her  at  midnight.  I 
couldn't  get  no  one  to  stay  with  her.  The  women  have 
to  mind  the  ranches  these  days.  She  had  a  spell  of 
her  neuralgia.  She  couldn't  have  come  with  me  any 
way."  He  was  torn  between  his  duty  and  his  fears. 

"When  do  you  go  back?" 

"I  don't  know.  We  are  all  needed  here.  Mexicali's 
going.  I'll  be  lucky  if  I  get  sent  back  to-night." 

"It's  going  down  the  Wistaria?" 

"Enough  to  scare  her.  The  ranch's  as  good  as  gone 
already.  What  good's  the  land  if  we  can't  get  water 
up  to  it?" 

"I  know,"  murmured  Innes. 

"I'm  not  blaming  any  one,  Miss  Hardin.  Unless  it's 
myself.  I  ought  never  to  have  brought  her  here.  Not 
until  the  river's  settled.  The  wind's  the  worst  to  her; 
she's  that  scared  of  the  wind." 

"I'll  go  and  bring  her  home  with  me.  You'll  feel 
better  to  have  her  near  town,"  she  suggested. 

"That's  first-class."  His  relief  was  pathetic.  His 
dull  fidelity,  his  love  for  that  nervous  wreck  of  a  woman, 
rose  that  instant  to  the  dignity  of  a  romance.  She 
thought  of  the  purple  flannel  waist,  the  untidy  home, 
the  smell  of  burning  rice,  of  scorched  codfish,  the  lov 
ing  struggle  of  the  woman  who  dared  life  in  the  desert 
beside  her  mate,  lacking  the  strength  to  make  it  toler 
able  to  either. 


OPPOSITION  197 

"I'll  bring  her  home  with  me,"  she  repeated. 

She  did  not  wait  for  his  gratitude.  Her  horse  was 
turned  back  to  town.  She  saw  Wooster  coming  toward 
her.  His  snapping  black  eyes  shot  out  sparks  of  anger. 

"He  won't  let  me  go." 

"Who  won't  let  you?"     But  she  knew. 

"Casey.  Says  he'll  send  some  one  else.  I  said  as 
nobody  else'd  make  Hardin  stop.  He  said  as  that  was 
up  to  Hardin." 

Of  course,  he  wouldn't  let  Wooster  go!  Her  offer 
to  Parrish  suddenly  shackled  her. 

"Orders  me  to  bed,"  spat  Wooster.  "Wonder  why 
he  didn't  order  gruel,  too.  It's  spite,  antagonism  to 
Hardin,  that's  what  it  is !"  She  believed  that,  too.  Tom 
was  right.  Rickard  did  take  advantage  of  his  authority. 

She  did  not  see  Rickard  until  he  stood  by  her  side. 

"I'm  sorry  not  to  spare  Wooster,  Miss  Hardin.  But 
there's  stiff  work  ahead.  He's  got  to  be  ready  for  a 
call.  If  Hardin  insists  on  spoiling  one  good  soldier, 
that's  his  affair.  I  can't  let  him  spoil  two." 

Wooster  shrugged,  and  left  them.  "Spoiling  good 
soldiers!" 

"I've  taken  Bodefeldt  off  duty.  I  told  him  to  relieve 
Hardin." 

Bodefeldt  who  blushed  when  any  one  looked  at  him ! 
He  would  be  about  as  persuasive  to  Tom  as  a  veil  to 
a  desert  wind !  She  turned  away,  but  not  before  Rick 
ard  saw  again  that  transforming  anger.  Her  eyes  shone 
like  topazes  in  sunlight.  She  would  not  trust  herself 
to  speak.  Wooster  was  waiting  for  her.  Rickard  could 
hear  the  man  repeat.  "I'm  sorry,  Miss  Hardin.  It's 
an  outrage.  That's  what  it  is." 

Queer,  they  couldn't  see  that  it  was  Hardin's  fault; 


198  THE    RIVER 

Karelin,  who  was  up  the  river  fighting  like  a  melo 
dramatic  hero;  fighting  without  caution  or  reserve,  de 
moralizing  discipline;  he  couldn't  help  admiring  the 
bulldog  energy,  himself.  That  was  what  all  these  men 
adored.  He'd  clenched  the  girl's  antagonism,  now,  for 
sure !  How  her  eyes  had  flashed  at  him ! 

Hello!  There  was  a  tree  floating  down  toward  the 
station-house  .  .  . 

"Bring  your  poles !"  he  yelled. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A    MORNING   RIDE 

TNNES  was  loping  toward  the  Wistaria,  the  wind  in 
JL  her  face  till  she  turned  west  by  the  canal.  It  oc 
curred  to  her  then,  that  she  did  not  know  how  she 
was  going  to  cross  the  river;  it  cut  the  canal;  that  was 
the  cut  which  was  threatening  that  district.  She  had 
not  thought  to  ask  Parrish  whether  they  boated  it  across, 
or  if  there  was  a  cable  across  the  stream.  She  would 
not  turn  back,  she  would  meet  some  one. 

She  was  a  part  of  a  fleeing  universe;  the  wind,  the 
dust-clouds,  the  victorious  racing  river,  her  good  horse 
loping  free — herself  on  the  edge  of  the  mad  wild  world ! 
Because  she  was  young,  and  life  was  dramatic  to  her, 
the  wind  took  possession  of  her  spirit,  which  spread 
its  wings  toward  the  broad  sweep  of  moving  plains, 
to  the  sharp  jagged  line  of  dust-obscured  mountain. 
The  conflict  of  Titans  called  to  her;  it  was  a  great 
music  drama ;  the  wind  had  its  own  wild  role ;  the  river, 
the  fervid  lover,  and  the  desert  a  lean,  brown  Indian 
maid  resisting  his  ardor.  The  Valkyrie's  call  burst 
from  her.  She  was  riding  to  it;  she  threw  the  five 
splendid  notes  against  the  shriek  of  the  elemental  battle. 

Desperate  pygmies,  all  of  them ;  ants,  protecting  their 
little  ant-hill  against  Titans — Ogilvie  in  his  tent,  Eggers 

199 


200  THE   RIVER 

a  prisoner  to  fear — the  women  planting-  their  little  trees, 
the  men  defending  their  toy  levee  against  the  Dragon 
and  the  strength  of  its  ravished  mate;  absurd,  impotent 
the  weak  human  effort !  Had  she  caught  Estrada's  feel 
ing?  She  had  taxed  him  often  with  skepticism.  True, 
he  has  not  answered  her,  except  with  those  truthful, 
melancholy  eyes  of  his! 

Queer,  that  reserve — with  her,  when  she  knew  what 
she  knew!  What  had  given  her  the  conviction  that 
he  did  not  want  to  tell  her  that  he  cared?  Why  did 
he  guard  his  lips,  when  his  eyes,  his  mind  cried  out  to 
her,  not  only  when  she  was  with  him,  but  in  the  night, 
when  all  the  world  slept,  and  he  miles  from  her,  his 
need  wakening  her,  chaining,  was  it  imagination,  or 
was  this — Love  ?  His  affection  deeper  than  all  the  others, 
and  he  the  only  one  she  did  not  have  to  remind, — con 
tinually  remind! — of  their  soldiery. 

Good  soldiers! 

Had  she  been  too  quick  to  take  offense  that  morn 
ing?  Could  she  expect  that  he — Mr.  Rickard — could 
not  see  the  failings  she  herself  feared?  Tom  was  splen 
did,  heroic,  yes,  but  a  good  soldier  ?  The  other  had  taken 
a  soldier's  drilling — Eduardo  had  told  her  of  Wyoming, 
and  the  Mexican  barrancas — Tom  was  unjust  in  that — 
unjust  to  Marshall.  Rickard  was  not  a  bookman.  Even 
if  she  did  not  like  him — ! 

She  saw  Busby,  who  was  driving  away  from  the  Wis 
taria. 

She  hailed  him.  "Tell  me,"  she  called.  "How  do  you 
get  over?" 

"They've  strung  a  cable.    Looking  for  Mrs.  Parrish?" 

His  wagon  was  heaped  high  with  household  loot,  tins 
and  frying-pans,  brooms  and  a  battered  graphophone. 


A   MORNING   RIDE  201 

Something  had  happened !  The  wind  drowned  her  words, 
but  her  hands  challenged  his  cargo. 

"Her  tent  blew  down !  She's  over  at  my  house."  He 
drove  abreast  of  her. 

TfcrtertP 

That  it  should  be  her  tent  to  go!  She  thought  to  ask 
if  Mrs.  Parrish  had  been  hurt,  but  Busby  did  not  hear 
the  question. 

"I've  just  been  over  to  see  what  I  could  save.  The 
Indians  would  be  carrying  these  away.  A  woman  sets 
a  store  by  her  pots  and  pans  and  dishes.  The  dishes, 
well,  they're  gone,  of  course ;  splinters !" 

"Then  there  is  no  use  going  there — I'll  go  over  to  your 
place." 

"Go  back  by  Jones'  ranch,"  shouted  Busby  over  his 
shoulder.  "It's  quicker  than  the  road  ahorseback." 

Her  pagan  joy  was  quenched.  Her  pace  was  now  a 
sober  one.  He  had  not  said  if  Mrs.  Parrish  was  hurt. 

The  tidy  farm  of  the  Busbys  looked  wind-blown  and 
dispirited.  The  young  orange  trees  had  torn  from  their 
stakes;  they  curved  away  from  the  castigating  wind. 
The  alfalfa  fields  had  withstood  the  blight,  and  the  young 
willows  which  fringed  the  ditch,  doubling  to  the  breeze, 
sprang  back  like  elastic  when  it  passed. 

Mrs.  Busby  came  out  on  the  porch  to  meet  her.  Innes 
was  tying  her  horse.  "How  is  she?"  she  demanded. 

"Asleep,  I  think.  Tie  him  fast.  This  wind  makes 
the  beasts  restless.  Come  right  in." 

Not  even  a  desert  storm  would  be  allowed  to  meddle 
with  that  interior.  The  room  Innes  entered  was  freshly 
dusted.  It  was  glaringly  ugly;  neat  and  comfortable. 
Tiers  of  labeled  boxes  rose  from  a  pine  shelf ;  a  motley 
collection  of  calico  bags  hung  from  hooks  beneath. 


202  THE   RIVER 

"How  did  you  get  her  here?  How  did  you  know?" 
demanded  Innes. 

"She  told  us  herself.    She  must  have  crawled  here.'' 

"Crawled!     She  was  hurt,  then!" 

"Who  told  you?    Where'd  you  hear  it?" 

"I  met  Mr.  Busby.     Was  she  hurt?" 

"Did  he  find  anything?  Was  he  goin'  there  or  was  he 
comin'  away?  I  guess  there  wasn't  much  left  with  that 
roof  fallin'  in." 

There  was  a  sound  from  the  room  beyond.  Mrs. 
Busby  disappeared.  A  minute  later,  she  beckoned  from 
the  darkened  chamber.  Innes  crept  in  fearfully. 

It  was  a  terrible  face  that  looked  up  from  the  pillow. 
A  red  gash  had  mutilated  the  cheek;  the  nose  was 
scraped.  Worse  to  Innes  was  the  motion  of  the  features 
— the  eyelids,  the  lips,  the  chin  were  twitching  the  face 
into  a  horror.  From  the  staring  eyeballs,  a  crazed  ap 
peal  shot  up. 

"She's  anxious  as  you  shan't  tell  her  husband.  He's 
got  his  work  to  do.  She  sent  word  by  Busby  as  she's 
all  right.''' 

"I  shan't  tell  him,"  said  Innes  pitifully. 

A  hand  that  looked  like  a  claw  picked  at  the  coarse 
white  spread.  The  jerking  mouth  was  trying  to  tell  her 
something.  Mrs.  Busby  leaned  over  the  bed. 

"She's  worrying  about  Mrs.  Dowker.  Now,  if  that 
doesn't  beat  all!  I'm  tellin'  her  you'll  go  and  see  if 
they're  all  right.  The  boy  is  sick."  An  open  wink  dis 
avowed  the  obligation. 

"Of  course,  I'll  go,"  cried  Innes,  not  heeding  the  signal. 
"Is — is  her  arm  broken?" 

Mrs.  Busby  was  silent.  The  woman  on  the  bed  had 
to  answer  that  question. 


A   MORNING   RIDE  203 

"It — fell  on  me.  I — always — knew  it  would.  I  got 
under  the  bed.  A  beam  struck  my  arm." 

Innes  pointed  to  the  skilful  bandage. 

"Who  set  it?" 

"I  did."  Mrs.  Busby  showed  embarrassment.  Fron 
tier  skill  and  her  new  faith  were  not  yet  in  harmony. 
"It  wasn't  no  time  to  argue." 

The  morning  was  gone  when  Innes  turned  from  the 
Dowker  tent.  She  was  despondently  comparing  life  to 
a  vise,  "that  is,  woman's  life!"  How  much  easier  to  be 
a  man,  to  fight  the  big  fight,  than  the  eternal  wrestle  with 
dirt  and  disorder!  No,  a  woman's  life  is  a  river,  she 
changed  her  comparison  whimsically,  a  shallow  stream 
ending  in  a — sink!  Small  wonder  that  the  sad  asylums 
were  full  of  women,  women  from  the  farms.  Tom's 
work  would  help  that,  the  Hardins,  the  Estradas;  she 
had  heard  Captain  Brandon  tell  of  the  deliverance  prom 
ised  by  the  gospel  of  irrigation!  The  women  on  the 
farms  of  to-morrow  would  not  have  isolation  or  pioneer 
toil  for  their  portion.  But  these  were  the  real  pioneers, 
these  women !  Theirs  was  the  sacrifice. 

Gerty  called  to  her  from  the  neighboring  tent  as  she 
was  entering  her  own. 

"Do  you  mind  cleaning  up  for  me  to-day  ?  Tom  may 
come  home.  I  left  the  dishes  last  night,  and  I've  got  one 
of  my  terrible  headaches." 

Soon  she  had  the  hot  water  waiting  for  the  tray  of 
scraped  dishes.  She  had  planned  to  go  back  to  the  river. 
"A  shallow  stream  ending  in  a  sink!"  she  chirped  to  a 
rueful  reflection  from  one  of  Gerty's  new  tins.  "Oh, 
smile,  Innes  Hardin!  You  look  just  like  a  Gingg!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WATERS 

BABCOCK  came  rushing  down  from  Los  Angeles 
that  morning  to  see  what  in  thunder  it  was  all  about. 
He  asked  every  one  he  met  why  some  one  didn't  get  busy 
and  stop  the  cutting  back  of  that  river  ?  There  was  no  one 
at  the  offices  of  the  company  to  report  to  him!  Why, 
the  building  was  deserted!  Ogilvie's  letters  had  proph 
esied  ruin.  It  all  looked  wrong  to  him.  Going  on  to 
the  levee,  he  met  MacLean,  Jr.,  who  was  coming  away. 
The  boy  told  him  vaguely  that  he  would  find  Rickard 
around  there,  somewhere. 

"I'll  hunt  him  up  for  you." 

"Why,  they  are  letting  it  get  ahead  of  them !"  Bab- 
cock's  manner  suggested  that  he  was  aggrieved  that  such 
carelessness  to  his  revered  company  should  go  unpun 
ished.  Something,  he  told  MacLean,  might  have  been 
done  before  the  situation  got  as  bad  as  this ! 

His  excited  stride  carried  him  across  the  dividing 
ditch,  which  now  was  carrying  no  water,  into  Mexicali. 
MacLean  had  to  lengthen  his  step  to  keep  pace  with  him. 
The  havoc  done  to  the  Mexican  village  excited  Babcock 
still  more. 

Estrada,  just  in  from  his  submerged  tracks,  was  loung 
ing  against  an  adobe  wall.  His  pensive  gaze  was  turned 
up-stream.  The  posture  of  exhaustion  suggested  laziness 

204 


THE   PASSING   OF   THE   WATERS       205 

to  Babcock,  who  was  on  the  hunt  for  responsibility.  He 
was  more  than  ever  convinced  that  the  right  thing  was 
not  being  done. 

"Estrada!" 

Estrada  took  his  eyes  from  the  river.  Babcock  looked 
like  a  snapping  terrier  taking  the  ditch  at  a  bound.  Mac- 
Lean,  Jr.,  a  lithe  greyhound,  followed. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  to  stop  this  ?"  A  nerv 
ous  hand  indicated  the  Mexican  station  gleaming  in  its 
fresh  coat  of  paint ;  to  the  muddy  water  undermining  its 
foundation. 

Estrada  drew  a  cigarette  out  of  his  pocket ;  lighted  it 
before  answering. 

"Not  a  God  damn  thing.     What  do  you  suggest?" 

A  big  wave  struck  the  bank.  The  car  on  the  siding 
trembled. 

"Another  wave  like  that  and  that  car'll  go  over,"  cried 
Babcock,  jumping,  mad.  "Why  don't  you  do  something? 
Why  don't  you  hustle — all  of  you?"  He  would  report 
this  incompetency. 

Down  the  stream  came  a  mass  of  debris,  broken  tim 
bers,  ravaged  brush,  a  wrenched  fence  post,  a  chicken 
coop.  A  red  hen,  clinging  to  its  swaying  ship,  took  the 
rapids. 

"Hustle — what?"  murmured  Estrada. 

Babcock  glared  at  him,  then  at  the  river.  His  eye 
caught  the  approaching  wreckage.  Men  came  running 
with  their  poles.  The  caving  bank  was  too  far  gone. 
The  instant  the  drifting  mass  struck  it,  there  was  a  shud 
der  of  falling  earth,  the  car  toppled  toward  the  flood 
waters,  the  waves  breaking  into  clouds  of  spray. 

Human  responsibility  fell  to  a  cipher.  The  river's 
might  was  magnificent.  Even  Babcock,  come  to  carp, 


206  THE   RIVER 

caught  the  excitement.  "Come,  MacLean,"  he  cried. 
"Watch  this!  The  station's  going!"  He  joined  Estrada 
by  the  adobe  wall. 

"Have  a  cigarette?"  murmured  Eduardo. 

His  eyes  glued  to  the  lurching  station-house,  Babcock 
took  a  brown-paper-rolled  cigarette  from  the  proffered 
box. 

"Look,"  he  cried.    "There,  she'll  go.    See  that—" 

There  was  a  splash  of  splintering  timber ;  a  Niagara  of 
spray  as  the  building  fell  into  the  flood.  A  minute  later, 
a  wreckage  of  painted  boards  was  floating  down-stream. 

At  table  Babcock  resumed  his  campaign.  "The  trouble 
with  you  all,  you  have  cold  feet.  You're  all  scared  off 
too  soon." 

Wooster,  up  from  his  nap,  looked  across  the  table. 
"Cold  feet  ?  So  you'd  have  if  you  had  been  up  for  nights, 
wetting  your  feet  on  the  levee,  as  some  of  us  have,  as 
Hardin  has.  Mine  are  cold  all  right."  He  lifted  an 
amazed  foot.  "Cold!  Look  here,  boys,  they're  wet!" 
The  men  looked  to  find  the  water  creeping  in — Babcock 
climbed  on  his  chair. 

"This  means  the  station,"  cried  Wooster.  Every  man 
jumped.  If  the  waters  had  got  to  them,  it  wouldn't  be 
long  before  they  were  reaching  the  O.  P.  depot!  The 
tracks  would  go —  They  were  piling  out  of  the  door 
when  the  telephone  caught  them.  It  was  a  message  from 
Rickard.  A  car  was  to  be  rigged  up,  papers,  tickets 
and  express  matter  taken  from  the  station.  The  river 
was  cutting  close  to  the  track.  The  car  would  be  the 
terminal,  a  half-mile  from  town. 

The  situation  looked  black.  Coulter,  Eggers,  began  to 
pack  their  stock.  The  levee,  it  was  said,  would  not  hold — 
Half  of  Mexicali  was  gone.  Calexico  would  go  next. 


THE   PASSING   OF   THE   WATERS       207 

Rickard's  Indians  were  kept  stolidly  piling  brush  and 
stuffed  sacks  on  the  levee.  This,  the  word  ran,  would 
be  the  fierce  night — no  one  expected  to  sleep. 

They  were  preparing  for  the  big  battle,  the  final  strug 
gle,  when  the  grade  recession  passed  the  town.  Spec 
tacular  as  was  its  coming,  there  was  an  anticlimax  in  its 
retreat.  The  water  reached  the  platform  of  the  depot, 
and  halted.  The  town  held  its  breath.  There  was  some 
sleep  that  night. 

The  next  day,  the  nerves  of  the  valley  relaxed.  The 
river  was  not  cutting  back.  The  men  at  the  levee  dropped 
their  shovels,  and  went  back  to  the  discussion  of  their 
lawsuits.  Their  crops  were  ruined;  too  much  water,  or 
too  little.  Whatever  way  they  had  been  hurt,  the  com 
pany  would  have  to  pay  for  it! 

A  small  shift  guarded  the  river.  Rickard,  in  his  room 
at  the  Desert  Hotel,  and  Hardin  up  the  river,  slept  a  day 
and  a  night  without  waking.  The  chair-tilters  picked  up 
their  argument  where  they  had  left  it:  was  the  railroad 
reaping  a  harvest  of  damage  suits  when  they  should  be 
thanked  instead  ?  Faraday,  the  newspapers  reported,  was 
trying  to  shift  his  responsibility;  he  had  appealed  to  the 
president.  Their  correspondence  was  published.  The 
government  was  in  no  hurry  to  take  the  burden.  A  tele 
graphic  sermon,  preaching  duty,  distributing  blame,  was 
sent  from  Washington.  Perhaps  not  Faraday  himself 
was  more  disturbed  than  the  debaters  of  the  Desert  Hotel. 

"The  railroad's  no  infant  in  arms!  It  wasn't  asleep 
when  it  took  over  the  affairs  of  the  D.  R."  Here  spoke 
the  majority.  "A  benefaction!  It  was  self-interest! 
When  the  river  is  harnessed,  who'll  profit  the  most  from 
the  valley  prosperity?  It  can  afford  to  pay  the  obliga 
tions;  that  is,  it  could.  It  will  find  a  way,"  the  ravens 


208  THE   RIVER 

croaked,  "of  shaking  the  Desert  Reclamation  Company's 
debts ;  of  evading  the  damage  suits.  Look  how  Hardin 
was  treated !" 

The  feeling  ran  higher.  For  many  of  the  ranchers 
were  ruined;  there  was  no  money  to  put  in  the  next 
year's  crop  unless  the  promises  of  the  irrigation  company 
were  kept.  A  few  landowners,  and  others  who  had  not 
completed  their  contracts,  distrusting  the  good  faith  of 
the  company,  or  its  ability  to  pay,  had  "quit"  in  disgust, 
to  begin  again  somewhere  else.  Parrish,  and  Dowker, 
and  others  of  the  "Sixth"  scoured  district  had  secured 
the  promise  of  employment  at  the  Heading.  Work,  it 
was  expected,  would  be  begun  at  once  now  that  the 
danger  to  Calexico  had  passed. 

MacLean  and  Estrada  met  outside  the  water-tower. 

"Have  you  been  up?"  Estrada  nodded  toward  the 
platform  that  carried  the  great  tank.  "Come  up  with 
me.  They  say  it's  worth  seeing." 

"Can't."  MacLean  was  plunging  toward  the  office, 
his  boyish  face  indicating  the  enjoyment  of  his  impor 
tance.  "Too  much  work.  The  office  work  is  all  piled  up. 
The  office,  itself,  looks  like  the  day  after  a  fire !  They're 
putting  back  the  windows.  Casey  and  I  have  a  desk 
between  us.  We're  requisitioning  quarries,  and  scraping 
the  country  with  a  fine  comb  for  labor.  Jinks,  but  it's 
great !" 

Estrada  climbed  alone  the  steep  inner  staircase  of  the 
water-tower.  He  was  thinking  of  the  young  American, 
vaguely  envying  him.  There  was  something  the  other 
had  that  he  wanted.  He  himself  could  work  as  hard 
for  the  river;  but  shout  for  it?  That  was  where  he 
stopped.  He  lacked,  he  could  admit  it  to  himself,  the 


LTHE   PASSING   OF   THE   WATERS       209 

quality  of  enthusiasm.  A  son  of  Guillermo  Estrada, — 
lacking  enthusiasm  \ 

From  the  platform  he  looked  down  over  the  submerged 
country.  To  the  west,  the  muddy  waters  spread  out  over 
the  land.  Eleven  miles,  he  had  heard  it  said,  were  cov 
ered.  His  sympathy  was  seeing,  not  a  drowned  country, 
but  submerged  hopes.  The  pain  of  it,  the  histories  be 
neath  it,  tugged  at  his  heart.  Distantly,  he  could  see  the 
ravaged  district  of  the  Wistaria,  spoiled  for  this  year 
surely,  perhaps  forever  made  useless.  Not  until  the 
waters  withdrew,  would  they  know  the  extent  of  the 
ruin.  From  the  north,  between  Fassett's  and  the  towns, 
steadily  advancing,  Hardin's  gang  was  still  serenading; 
the  boom  of  his  drums  came  clearly  through  the  still  air. 

Below  him  lay  the  valley  of  his  father's  vision.  The 
story  of  that  desert  journey  had  been  told  him  so  vividly, 
so  variously  that  he  had  made  himself  one  of  the  party. 
Coronel  was  there,  the  general,  and  Bliss — dead  soon 
after ;  Hardin,  Silent.  Out  of  a  clear  morning,  following 
the  storm,  flashed  the  mirage  which  came  to  Estrada  as 
prophecy, — the  city  vision  which  summoned  him  to  fulfil 
the  Fremont-Powell  dream.  "That  barren  land,  and  a 
rich  river  flowing  over  yonder!"  His  father's  vibrant 
voice  returned  to  his  memory;  how  often  had  he  heard 
him  cry:  "The  young  men  pressing  in  from  the  con 
gested  cities  to  get  their  living  out  of  that  unworked 
soil ;  a  clean  living,  Eduardo !"  And  Silent  had  told  him 
how  the  general  had  looked  like  a  prophet  of  ancient 
Israel  that  mystic  morning  when  he  turned  from  the 
mirage  of  spires  and  turrets  and  tender  colored  walls, 
exclaiming,  "God !  If  I  were  young  like  you,  Silent,  I'd 
build  that  city !  that  city  that  we  see  !"• 


210  THE   RIVER 

And  now,  the  cities,  embryonic,  were  there,  but  would 
they  stay  ?  Built  like  the  parabled  city  upon  sand — sand 
without  water ! — would  they  not  crumble  and  melt  away, 
even  as  the  mirage  had  faded?  He  forced  himself  to 
translate  his  conviction  into  material  reasons.  The  desert 
was  convincing.  With  its  past  defying  history,  its  future 
appealed  to  the  imagination  as  unchanging,  eternal.  Even 
now,  those  houses  down  yonder,  in  their  ugly  concrete- 
ness,  were  less  real  than  the  idea  of  the  desert  surround 
ing  the  little  patch  of  civilization.  Brandon's  words,  from 
his  monograph  on  desert  soils,  recurred  to  him.  "The 
desert  is  a  condition,  not  a  fact."  To  him,  the  desert  was 
a  fact. 

Eduardo  was  conscious  that  he  was  thinking  with  the 
surface  of  his  mind.  He  was  withholding  the  belief  in 
the  negative  sense  which  told  him  that  he  would  never  see 
that  river  subdued  to  service.  A  skeptic,  Innes  had  called 
him !  He  made  himself  argue  it  out  as  a  matter  of  tem 
perament;  his  father's  had  been  optimistic,  fervid;  his 
was  detached  and  analytical.  The  general  had  been  mili 
tant;  he  was  a  dreamer.  To  him,  this  was  a  drama  of 
form  and  color,  a  picture,  a  panorama — Parrish,  Hardin, 
each  in  his  place. 

Had  he  but  the  dynamic  energy  which  had  swept  his 
father  through  his  vivid,  versatile  life !  Once,  under  the 
spell  of  the  general's  magnetism,  he  had  been  able  to 
force  that  zeal,  that  enthusiasm,  to  recharge  his  own 
weakened  batteries;  but  later,  while  flinging,  perhaps, 
a  track  across  a  waste  of  sands,  and  a  squaw's  bright 
skirt  against  a  cloud-free  sky,  or  a  buck's  striped  breast 
rising  from  a  clump  of  creosote,  would  make  his  work 
a  grind  again.  He  had  misplaced  himself.  What  else, 
then,  should  he  be  doing? 


THE   PASSING   OF  THE   WATERS 

Often,  and  now,  looking  down  on  that  chocolate-colored 
land,  it  would  come  to  him  that  his  was  the  yearning, 
the  wistfulness  of  the  painter.  Those  purple  mountains 
flushing  to  rosy  points  against  a  clear  blue  sky,  that  rush 
ing  water,  what  did  it  rouse  in  him?  A  sense  of  mili 
tancy,  as  with  Rickard  and  Hardin,  MacLean,  all  of 
them?  It  pricked  instead,  an  irritation,  a  feeling  of  in 
completeness.  He  wanted  something;  could  a  man  be 
homesick  for  what  he  never  had? 

It  was  not  the  valley  scheme  alone,  which  made  of  his 
mind  a  battle-ground.  Did  he  not  meet  life  so,  with  a 
ready  hand  and  a  lagging  spirit  ?  That  girl  down  there ! 
Had  he  the  blood  of  his  father  in  his  veins,  would  he  not 
take  her  of  the  steady  boyish  gaze,  match  her  sweetness 
with  just  loving?  What  was  it  that  told  him  it  would 
never  be?  Why  did  he  keep  guard  over  lips  and  eyes? 
She  looked  at  others  with  the  same  level,  straightforward 
frankness  she  gave  to  him ;  the  game  was,  perhaps,  yet  to 
him  who  ran !  If  it  were  going  to  be,  there  would  be  a 
spring  of  joy  within  his  heart.  It  was  not  going  to  be. 
He  had  asked  before,  and  it  had  answered. 

Whose  was  the  answer,  that  came  to  him,  sometimes 
at  call,  often  unbidden?  Intangible  as  moonlight,  real 
as  the  voice  of  a  friend?  Can  you  see  a  voice?  No  sub 
stance  to  a  voice?  Let  it  come  to  again,  let  it  tell  him 
of  that  river;  should  he  see  it,  the  vision  of  his  father, 
of  the  others,  he,  Eduardo? 

Standing  in  the  wash  of  clear  sunlight,  his  arms  out 
stretched  to  the  land  his  father's  vision  had  peopled,  he 
sent  out  his  call  that  he  should  see  that  dream  fulfilled, 
the  river  conquered.  Give  him  back  his  belief!  Give 
him  back  the  courage  that  would  make  him  one  with  the 
folk  down  there ! 


212  THE   RIVER 

Out  of  that  land  of  silence  came,  as  a  wave  of  dark 
ness,  a  mist  shutting  out  the  sun,  separating  him  from  his 
fellows,  the  answer.  No  need  to  question  that!  Had  it 
ever  erred?  Slowly,  as  a  dream-walker,  he  went  down 
the  tower  steps,  and  mingled  with  men  again. 

A  week  later,  he  was  standing  on  the  same  platform. 
The  sky  was  still  fleckless;  the  painted  flat  mountains 
made  sharp  points  into  the  vivid  blue  of  the  sky.  The 
heat  was  holding  off.  The  desert  was  spelling  out  her 
siren  lure.  But  her  lover  had  retreated  to  his  gipsy  bed ; 
her  brown  lean  breast  was  no  longer  pillowing  him. 

In  the  gorge  west  of  the  town,  the  water  was  now  con 
fined.  The  recession  of  the  waters  disclosed  the  ravaged 
Palo  Verde,  its  shattered  vineyard  set  in  a  square  of 
eucalyptus  trees,  young  giants  of  three  years'  planting. 
Northward,  Estrada  caught  the  gleam  of  sunshine  on 
broad  barley-fields ;  he  saw  the  glistening  foliage  of  the 
orange  orchards,  Busby's  and  the  others.  Between  him 
and  the  eastern  range  spread  miles  of  sweet-smelling  al 
falfa.  Young  willow  growth  checker-boarded  the  coun 
try,  marking  the  canal  system.  All  that  in  a  few  years ; 
the  miracle  of  irrigation.  He  had  seen  virgin  desert,  as 
this  had  been  when  his  father  had  crossed  with  Bliss  and 
Hardin ;  six  years  before,  when  he  had  first  seen  it,  it  was 
still  desert,  such  as  he  was  flinging  a  track  across,  of 
creosote  bush,  and  tough  mesquit  roots,  and  here  and 
there,  the  arrow-weed.  Who  could  tell  of  the  next  six 
years?  Perhaps,  the  rest  would  be  vanquished,  and  the 
river  yet  a  meek  water-carrier  ?  But  he  knew ! 

On  the  veranda  of  the  office,  an  hour  later,  he  met 
Rickard,  carrying  his  Gladstone. 

"I'm  off!"  The  American  halted,  poised,  as  if  for  the 
next  step  of  a  dance,  so  it  appeared  to  Estrada.  His 


THE   PASSING   OF   THE    WATERS       213 

eyes  were  glowing,  as  though  a  boy  springing  toward 

vacation. 

"The  Heading  ?    Have  you  had  word  yet  ?" 

"They're  still  passing  the  buck  to  each  other!     But 

I'll  be  there  when  it  comes.     You'll  see  that  Dragon 

scotched  yet,  Estrada!" 
He  carried  the  look  of  victory.    But  so  also,  had  Tom 

Hardin !    So  once  had  the  general !    And  the  river  still 

running  to  the  sea! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MORE  ORATORY 

FOcIR  men  sat  at  a  small  table  in  a  corner  of  the 
crowded  hotel  dining-room,  in  El  Centro.  Their 
names  made  their  corner  the  psychological  center  of  the 
room.  Marshall  was  always  a  target  of  speculation. 
MacLean,  straight  and  soldierly  in  his  mustard-colored 
clothes,  was,  as  usual,  the  man  of  distinction.  Black 
started  the  whisper  going  that  the  dark  stranger  was 
General  de  la  Vega,  the  Mexican  commissioner. 

What  was  he  doing  in  that  group  ?  Babcock  completed 
a  combination  which  encouraged  speculations  and  head- 
shakings.  The  room  was  jammed  with  valley  men.  The 
meeting  of  the  ranchers  and  the  several  water  companies 
had  been  called  for  that  afternoon,  the  summons  signed 
by  Faraday  himself.  Nothing  else  had  been  talked  of  for 
a  fortnight. 

It  was  known  throughout  the  valley  that  the  work  at 
the  intake  was  not  yet  begun ;  that  Rickard  was  waiting 
there  for  orders;  that  Faraday  and  the  president  of  the 
United  States  were  involved  in  correspondence  as  to  the 
responsibility  for  the  future  control  of  the  river.  Fara 
day's  eagerness  to  shift  his  burden  was  looked  upon  as 
suspicious.  It  was  in  the  air  that  the  officers  of  the  Over 
land  Pacific  would  demand  a  recall  of  the  damage  suits 

214 


MORE    ORATORY  215 

before  they  would  complete  the  protective  works  at  the 
Heading.  The  men  of  long  vision,  members  of  the  water 
companies,  and  Brandon,  through  the  valley  Star,  were 
pointing  out  that  the  valley's  salvation  depended  on  the 
immediate  control  of  the  river;  that  the  railroad,  only, 
had  power  to  effect  it.  These  conservatives  were  coun 
seling  caution.  Only  that  morning,  the  Star  had  issued 
an  extra,  a  special  edition  pleading  for  cooperation. 
"If  the  river  breaks  out  again,"  warned  Brandon's  edi 
torial,  "without  immediate  force  to  restrain  it,  reclama 
tion  for  that  valley  is  a  dream  that  is  done.  And  the 
only  force  equal  to  that  emergency  is  the  railroad.  Why 
deliberately  antagonize  the  railroad?  The  Desert  Recla 
mation  Company,  it  is  well  known,  is  bankrupt.  For  the 
instant,  the  railroad  has  assumed  the  responsibilities  of 
the  smaller  organization.  Apply  the  same  situation  to  in 
dividuals.  Suppose  a  private  citizen  is  in  straits,  and 
another  comes  forward  to  help  him.  Must  every  creditor 
assume  that  the  Samaritan  should  pay  the  crushed  citi 
zen's  bills  ?  In  the  present  issue,  self-interest  should  urge 
consideration.  Better  a  small  loss  to-day  that  to-morrow 
may  amply  refund,  than  total  ruin  in  the  future." 

"Subsidized  by  the  O.  P.  1"  With  the  whisper  ran  a 
wink.  The  advice  of  all  the  conservatives  was  believed 
to  be  business  policy.  Black  and  others  were  inflaming 
public  spirit.  During  the  week  that  followed  Faraday's 
call,  there  had  been  meetings  of  the  various  water  com 
panies;  incendiary  excitement  had  demoralized  the  dis 
cussions.  "The  pledges  of  the  Desert  Reclamation  should 
be  kept." 

Hardin,  from  his  morose  unshared  table,  could  see 
the  anxious  curiosity  setting  toward  the  railroad  group. 
Over  glasses,  heads  were  close  together.  Near  him,  the 


216  THE   RIVER 

talk  ran  high.  Scraps  of  inflammable  speeches  blew  his 
way  from  Barton's  party. 

Hardin's  mouth  wore  a  set  sneer.  "Water  company 
talk!"  Black  was  haranguing  his  comrades.  "Stand 
out  against  them.  Don't  let  them  bluff  you.  Marshall 
will  try  to  bluff  you.  Stand  together!"  Barton's  res 
onant  organ  broke  through  the  clatter.  "Marshall  is  not 
going  to  bluff  us."  Grace  and  Black  began  to  talk  at 
once.  Hardin's  lip  grew  rougher.  Where  had  they  all 
been  if  it  had  not  been  for  him  ?  Why,  he'd  pulled  them 
from  their  little  farms  back  East,  where  they  were  toiling 
— where  they'd  be  toiling  yet.  They'd  had  the  vision  of 
sudden  wealth — they  hadn't  the  grit  to  work  for  it,  to 
wait  for  it!  How  many  years  had  he  been  struggling? 
He  was  a  young  man  when  he'd  gone  into  this  thing,  and 
he  was  old  now. 

His  eyes  fell  on  Hollister  from  the  Palo  Verde,  with 
Youngberg-  and  his  wife,  who  in  pale  gray  cloth  looked 
as  though  she  were  on  her  way  to  a  reception.  He  scowled 
at  the  leveling  of  gold  lorgnettes  in  Morton's  group — the 
eastern  swells  there  for  a  possible  sensation !  And  Sen 
ator  Graves  had  thought  it  important  enough  to  come 
down  from  Los  Angeles?  The  tall  duffer  with  him,  his 
head  gleaming  like  a  billiard  ball,  was  probably  the  New 
York  lawyer  who  was  dickering  for  the  A  B  C  ranch. 
He  had  read  of  it  in  the  Los  Angeles  papers ;  a  big  syndi 
cate  thought  this  the  time  to  get  in  cheap,  when  confidence 
was  at  a  low  ebb.  "It's  high-water  mark  with  Graves,  or 
nothing,"  scowled  Hardin.  "He's  no  spring  chicken. 
They'll  all  make  money  out  of  this  valley,  but  me.  I 
haven't  tried  to  make  money ;  I've  made  the  valley !  And 
is  there  a  more  hated  man  in  this  room  ?  Sickening !" 

Coffee  and  cigars  had  been  reached  of  the  midday 


MORE   ORATORY  217 

dinner.  Babcock  was  nervously  consulting  his  watch. 
"Shouldn't  we  arrange  the  meeting?"  he  asked  for  the 
third  time.  The  social  and  casual  air  of  the  meeting  had 
teased  him.  What  had  the  political  situation  in  Mexico 
to  do  with  the  important  session  confronting  them  ?  His 
fussy  soul  had  no  polite  salons;  office  rooms  every  one 
of  them.  MacLean  looked  to  Tod  Marshall  to  answer. 

"I  think  it  will  arrange  itself,"  his  voice  was  silken. 
"It  is  to  be  a  discussion,  a  conference.  You  can't  slate 
that." 

"We  could  program,"  began  Babcock,  looking  at  his 
watch  again. 

"I  don't  think  we'll  have  to."  Marshall  smiled  across 
the  table.  "You'll  find  this  meeting  will  run  itself.  There 
is  not  a  man  here  who  is  not  burning  to  speak.  Look  at 
them  now!  Drop  a  paper  in  that  crowd,  and  see  the 
blaze  you'd  get!  You  can  open  the  meeting,  Mr.  Bab 
cock,  and  I  would  suggest  that  you  call  on  Mr.  de  la  Vega 
first." 

"And  next?"  Babcock's  nervous  pencil  hovered  over 
his  note-book. 

"The  rest  will  resolve  itself."  Marshall's  eyes  were 
twinkling.  "We'll  find  our  cue.  I'll  kick  you  under  the 
table  when  I  want  to  talk.  You  can't  program  against 
passions,  Babcock." 

"But  we  ought  to  be  starting."  Fussily  Babcock  mar 
shaled  them  from  their  leisurely  cigars.  "It  is  getting 
late." 

The  eyes  of  the  dining-room  followed  the  party  as  they 
filed  past  the  buzzing  tables.  Faraday  was  not  in  town ; 
Marshall  represented  that  power.  As  he  walked  out, 
bowing  right  and  left,  his  right  hand  occasionally  ex 
tended  in  his  well-known  oratorical,  courteous  gesture. 


218  THE   RIVER 

His  black  tie  was  stringing  down  his  shirt-front;  his 
black  clothes  were  the  worse  for  his  lunch.  But  no  one, 
save  the  eastern  girls,  saw  spots  or  tie.  The  future  of 
that  valley  lay  in  that  man's  hand,  no  matter  how  Black 
or  Grace  might  harangue.  In  five  minutes,  the  dining- 
room  was  emptied. 

The  main  street  was  lined  with  groups  of  ranchers, 
who  had  driven  in  to  the  advertised  meeting.  On  some 
of  the  wagons,  men  were  finishing  their  basket  lunches. 
The  sun  was  mild;  the  sky  clear. 

Hardin  overheard  bits  of  eager  argument  as  he 
threaded  the  crowded  street,  his  head  down,  avoiding 
recognition. 

'The  Service'll  try  to  get  in."  "The  O.  P.'s  got  a  good 
thing."  "I  tell  you,  the  railroad's  in  a  hole."  "Fara 
day's  a  fathead." 

As  snow  gently  falling,  had  gathered  the  first  damage 
suits  of  the  ranchers.  The  last  flood  had  precipitated  a 
temperamental  storm.  Men  were  suing  for  the  possible 
values  of  their  farms,  impossible  values  of  crops.  Not 
alone  the  companies  had  been  blanketed  with  the  accusing 
papers,  but  against  Mexico  the  white  drifts  had  piled 
up.  Mexico !  No  one  knew  better  than  Hardin  how  ab 
surd  it  was  to  accuse  the  sister  country  of  responsibility. 
A  pretty  pickle  they  were  in !  Where  was  it  all  going  to 
end? 

The  town  teemed  with  importance.  In  the  whole  val 
ley,  this  was  the  one  place  which  could  house  the  expected 
crowd.  The  spectacular  new  city,  which  had  sprung  full 
grown  from  the  head  of  its  Jovian  promoter,  Petrie, 
whose  outlying  lands  must  be  brought  into  value,  had 
justified  itself.  It  had  offered  its  theater.  Toward  that 
white-painted  building,  fresh  as  crude  wine,  the  groups 


MORE    ORATORY  219 

were  turning.  To  Hardin,  borne  along  with  the  stream 
which  overflowed  from  the  narrow  walks,  came  the  mem 
ory  of  a  forgotten  tale :  a  palace  raised  in  a  single  night 
was  scarcely  more  spectacular  than  this  town  of  a  year's 
growth.  A  theater,  a  steam-laundry,  an  ice-plant,  and 
his  eyes  included  two  new  book-stores,  new  at  least  to 
him.  Where  would  all  this  have  been  if  it  had  not  been 
for  him  ?  And  what  was  he  ?  An  outcast  in  their  midst, 
no  one  speaking  to  him !  But  they'd  need  him  yet ;  they'd 
be  turning  to  him.  It  would  be  all  right,  somehow !  He'd 
make  Gert  proud  of  him ! 

Groups  of  men  were  standing  around  the  entrance  to 
the  Valley  Theater,  where  the  lithographed  bill-boards 
were  still  proclaiming  five  weeks  of  grand  and  comic 
opera.  One  week  of  successful  programs,  the  preceding 
spring,  and  the  roistering  singers  had  disbanded  to  form 
a  melon  company.  They  had  rented  a  tract,  some  tents, 
and  had  gone  in  pursuit  of  swift  money.  After  the  har 
vesting  of  their  crops,  the  heat  of  the  summer  and  the 
clink  of  the  dollars  in  their  pockets  had  discouraged  the 
completion  of  the  engagement.  Abandoning  their  inten 
tion,  the  genial  troupe  had  swept  out  of  the  steaming 
valley  to  tell  their  merry  story  on  the  Rialto. 

In  the  lobby,  Hardin  ran  up  against  Brandon,  who  was 
following  a  news  scent.  Through  the  valley  it  was  being 
rumored  that  subscriptions  were  to  be  asked  for  the  com 
pletion  of  the  work.  If  this  were  the  intention,  there 
would  be  a  hot  meeting,  worth  sending  to  the  Sun. 
The  war-horse  was  treading  battle-ground. 

"You  are  going  on  the  platform?"  assumed  the  news 
paper  man.  "No?  Then  will  you  sit  with  me?" 

"If  you  will  sit  up-stairs,"  scowled  Hardin,  "I  don't 
want  to  be  dragged  on  to  the  platform." 


220  THE   RIVER 

He  led  the  way  up  the  dusty  dark  steps  to  the  balcony, 
and  on  to  the  rear  where  the  ceiling  sharply  slanted. 
They  established  themselves  in  seats  by  the  wall.  The 
air  had  a  dry  smell  of  old  tobacco  and  stale  perfumes ; 
of  face  powders.  Brandon  had  a  minute  of  coughing. 

When  they  had  entered,  only  a  few  seats  were  occu 
pied.  That  instant,  the  crowd  crushed  in.  Men  and 
women  jostled  one  another  in  the  narrow  aisles;  the 
chairs  filled  up;  some  of  the  younger  men  jumped  over 
chair-backs,  as  sheep  over  rocks.  Hardin  and  Brandon 
leaned  over  to  see  the  inrush.  They  saw  Barton's  shriv 
eled  body  and  leonine  head  borne  in  by  his  friends.  Sen 
ator  Graves  was  entering  a  proscenium  box  with  his  com 
panion. 

"That's  Hawkins,  who  represents  the  Eastern  syndi 
cate  that's  bargaining  for  the  A  B  C,"  informed  Bran 
don. 

"I  could  have  got  that  land  for  ten  cents  an  acre  when 
I  began  this  work,  if  I'd  looked  out  for  myself !  It  would 
have  been  better  if  I  had  looked  out  for  myself;  what 
thanks  do  I  get  for  only  working  for  the  valley?" 
grouched  Hardin.  "What's  Graves  holding  out  for?" 

"One  thousand  an  acre,  and  he'll  get  it,"  answered 
Brandon.  "That  soil  is  as  rich  as  gold  dust.  Hello, 
there's  Watts,  of  Water  Company  Number  Two;  and 
John  Francis,  and  Green  and  Ford.  They've  not  sent  rep 
resentatives  from  the  water  companies,  Hardin !  They've 
come  as  a  body!" 

His  excitement  communicated  itself  speedily  to  his 
companion. 

"Something's  going  to  drop,  sure !" 

"And  Wilson,  with  Petrie.  I  didn't  know  he  was  in 
any  of  the  water  companies." 


MORE   ORATORY  221 

"Is  there  anything  in  the  valley  he's  not  in?"  All  of 
them  with  the  idea  of  making  money ;  all  but  himself ! 

Down  in  the  orchestra,  Black  from  the  Wistaria  was 
haranguing  a  group  of  gesticulating  ranchers.  Phrases 
climbed  to  the  men  on  the  balcony  seats.  "Keep  their 
pledges.  Promise  makers.  Let  them  look  at  our  crops  !" 

"Every  man  thinking  of  himself,  of  his  own  precious 
skin !"  sneered  Hardin. 

Hollister  and  the  Youngbergs  were  seen  taking  their 
seats  near  the  orchestra  stand,  behind  the  bickering 
merry  Blinns.  Morton  was  filling  the  other  proscenium 
with  his  eastern  guests. 

Brandon  had  to  surrender  to  an  attack  of  coughing. 
He  leaned,  spent,  against  the  wall.  "That  audience,"  he 
gasped,  "represents  several  million  dollars — of  dissatis 
faction."  The  phrase  had  come  to  him  in  his  paroxysm. 
He  would  use  it  in  his  story  for  the  Sun.  If  there  was 
a  story. 

"If  Marshall  expects  to  coerce  those  men,  I  lose  my 
guess.  Then  he's  no  judge  of  men,"  cried  Hardin.  "Look 
at  those  faces."  The  floor  was  a  sea  of  impassioned 
features. 

"Something's  going  to  drop,"  echoed  Brandon. 

From  the  wings,  Babcock's  inquisitive  glasses  were  seen 
to  sweep  the  house.  Hardin  could  catch  the  summons 
of  an  excited  forefinger  to  the  group  unseen.  There  was 
a  minute  of  delay.  Then  Babcock's  nervous  toddle  car 
ried  him  on  to  the  stage  which  had  been  set  for  Robin 
Hood,  the  scenery  deserted  when  the  singers  had  rushed 
out  of  the  valley.  Babcock's  striped,  modern  trousers 
looked  absurdly  anachronistic  against  the  background  of 
old  England.  There  was  a  titter  from  Morton's  pro 
scenium  box  where  the  lorgnettes  were  flashing. 


222  THE   RIVER 

De  la  Vega  followed  Babcock.  There  was  a  Hush  of 
curiosity.  The  house  did  not  know  who  he  was.  Be 
hind  him,  soldierly,  stiff,  stalked  MacLean.  Marshall's 
entrance  released  the  tongues.  There  was  an  interval 
of  confusion  on  the  stage.  Babcock,  like  a  restless  ter 
rier,  was  snapping  at  the  heels  of  the  party.  At  last,  they 
were  all  fussily  seated.  De  la  Vega  was  given  the  place 
of  honor.  Marshall,  Babcock  put  on  his  left,  MacLean 
on  the  right. 

Babcock  raised  his  staccate  gavel.  A  hush  fell  on  the 
house.  His  words  were  clipped  and  sharp. 

"You  have  left  your  plowing  to  come  here.  You  are 
anxious  to  hear  what  we  have  to  say  to  you.  You  can 
not  afford  to  be  indifferent  to  it.  You  acknowledge,  by 
your  presence,  a  dependence,  a  correlation  which  you 
would  like  to  deny.  Irrigation  means  cooperation,  suf 
fering  together,  struggling  together,  succeeding  together. 
You  prefer  the  old  individual  way,  each  man  for  himself. 
I  tell  you  it  won't  do.  You  belong  in  other  countries, 
the  countries  of  old-fashioned  rain.  You  want  to  hear 
what  we  have  to  say  to  you,  the  company  who  saved  the 
valley,  the  company  you  are  suing.  But  you  have  also 
suits  against  Mexico.  There  is  a  gentleman  here  who 
has  a  message  from  Mexico  about  those  suits.  I  have 
the  honor,  gentlemen,  to  introduce,  Sefior  de  la  Vega." 

There  was  a  gentle  stir  of  released  hazards.  The 
Spaniard  approached  the  footlights,  his  survey  sweeping 
the  house. 

"That  wasn't  bad,"  murmured  Brandon,  opening  his 
note-book. 

"Ladies,"  bowed  the  Mexican.  "Gentlemen,  Mr.  Chair 
man.  It  is  with  an  appreciation  of  the  honor  that  I  ac 
cepted  for  to-day  the  invitation  of  Mr.  Marshall  to  speak 


MORE   ORATORY  223 

before  you,  to  speak  to  you;  I  must  tell  you  first  my 
thought  as  I  sat  there  and  looked  at  you,  the  youth,  the 
flower  of  the  American  people.  A  few  years  ago,  we 
were  calling  this  the  great  Colorado  Desert;  now,  the 
world  calls  it  the  hothouse  of  America.  This  theater 
is  built  over  the  bones  of  gold-seekers,  who  dared  death 
in  this  dreaded  desert  to  find  what  was  buried  in  those 
mountains  beyond.  The  man,  I  say,  who  crossed  this 
desert,  took  the  hazard  of  death.  It  was  a  countryman 
of  mine  who  piloted,  fifteen  years  ago,  a  little  band  of 
men,  across  the  desert.  Perhaps  he  camped  on  this  very 
spot.  It  is  not  impossible!  It  is  here,  perhaps,  that  he 
got  his  inspiration.  He  saw  a  wonderful  territory;  he 
dreamed  to  quicken  it  with  the  useless  waters  of  the 
Colorado.  You  will  all  agree  that  it  was  Guillermo 
Estrada  who  dreamed  the  dream  that  has  come  true ;  that 
it  was  through  him  that  some  of  your  countrymen  secured 
their  privilege  to  reclaim  this  land.  Later,  when  one  of 
your  countrymen  found  he  could  not  fulfil  his  promise 
to  you,  the  promise  to  deliver  water  to  your  ranches,  he 
came  to  my  nation  and  got  permission  to  cut  into  the 
river  on  our  territory.  Most  gladly  did  Porfirio  Diaz 
grant  that  privilege.  For  that,  to-day,  you  are  suing 
him.  This,  I  am  told,  is  your  complaint." 

His  abrupt  pause  betrayed  a  confused  murmur  of 
voices.  De  la  Vega's  polite  ear  tried  to  differentiate  the 
phrases.  There  was  a  jumble  of  sound.  De  la  Vega 
looked  inquiringly  at  Babcock,  who  waved  him  on. 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  history,  but  I  would 
like  to  say  in  passing  that  so  assured  were  your  people 
of  our  friendly  feeling  toward  you  that  they  did  not 
wait  to  receive  permission  from  Mexico  to  make  the 


224  THE   RIVER 

cut.  Your  people  were  in  a  hurry.  Your  crops  were  in 
danger.  First  the  lack  of  water,  then  too  much  water 
damaged  your  valley.  A  few  acres — " 

A  voice  from  the  crowd  cried  out,  "A  few  acres? 
Thousands  of  acres."  Instantly  others  were  on  their 
feet.  "Thousands  of  acres.  Ruin."  One  man  was  shout 
ing  himself  apoplectic. 

Babcock's  gavel  sounded  a  sharp  staccato  on  the  table. 

"Thousands  of  acres."  De  le  Vega  was  unruffled. 
"And  more  than  that.  The  valley,  it  must  be  remem 
bered,  does  not  stop  at  the  line.  Mexican  lands,  too, 
have  been  scoured  by  the  action,  the  result  of  the  action 
of  your  irrigation  company.  It  was  a  mutual,"  he  paused, 
and  a  quaint  word  came  to  his  need.  "A  mutual  bereave 
ment.  It  did  not  occur  to  us  to  accuse  you  of  our  trou 
bles.  Your  damage  suits  pained  and  astonished  us.  But 
they  gave  us  also  a  suggestion." 

The  rustling  and  the  murmurs  suddenly  ceased.  A 
prescient  hush  waited  on  De  la  Vega.  "You  have  been 
advised  to  sue  us.  To  sue  us  for  giving  you  that  con 
cession.  Therefore,  the  only  answer  is  for  us  to  with 
draw  that  concession!  You  accuse  us,  for  giving  it  to 
you.  That  concession  is  valuable.  What  else  can  we  do  ? 
Before  your  damage  suits  were  filed,  we  were  approached 
by  others  for  the  same  privilege.  If  you  do  not  with 
draw  your  suits,  my  nation  sends  word  to  you  that  you 
may  not  take  water  from  the  Colorado  River  through 
Mexican  soil.  You  will  not  be  without  water  probably 
long;  I  have  said  that  concession  is  valuable!  Other 
arrangements  will  probably  be  made  so  that  the  valley 
will  be  given  water.  I  would  like  to  take  your  answer 
to  my  government." 

It  was  several  seconds  before  the  house  got  its  breath. 


MORE    ORATORY  223 

The  import  of  the  diplomat's  words  was  astounding. 
Barton  got  to  his  feet,  yelling  with  his  great  bass  voice, 
"Betrayed !"  His  shrunken  finger  indicated  a  youth  with 
"R.  S."  in  black  letters  on  his  collar.  "The  valley  has 
been  betrayed." 

In  the  balcony,  the  uproar  was  deafening.  Around 
Hardin  and  Brandon  words  were  thudding  like  bullets. 
"Reclamation  Service."  "That's  their  game."  "The  con 
cession!"  "They  won't  get  it."  "Betrayed.  We  are 
betrayed." 

Down-stairs,  Babcock's  gavel  rapped  unheard.  Be 
hind  the  excited  figure  wielding  the  stick,  sat  Marshall, 
his  unreadable,  sweet  smile  on  his  face.  His  eyes  were 
on  Babcock,  who  was  vainly  clamoring  for  order.  "Pro 
gram  that  meeting?" 

Hollister  was  trying  to  make  himself  heard  to  Barton 
over  two  rows  of  seats,  but  his  voice  was  like  a  child's 
on  an  ocean  beach.  Barton  was  surrounded  by  eager 
anxious  men.  The  audience  had  split  into  circles  of 
haranguing  centers.  It  was  impossible  to  get  attention. 
Hardin  could  see  Marshall  pull  Babcock  by  the  tails  of 
his  coat.  Unwillingly,  he  could  see  Babcock  allow  the 
crowd  five  minutes  by  his  consulted  watch.  Then  again, 
the  gavel  danced  on  the  table.  Marshall  was  still  smiling. 
Babcock's  shrill  voice  split  the  din.  "Order."  The  ocean 
of  voices  swallowed  him  again. 

"We  won't  let  them  in,"  Grace  was  bellowing,  "the 
valley  won't  stand  for  it." 

"Take  your  medicine,"  thundered  the  big  organ  of 
Barton.  "I  warned  you,  Imperial  Valley." 

"Betrayal,"  groaned  the  crowd. 

"A  pretty  international  block."  Brandon  was  smiling, 
too.  This  was  better  than  he  had  expected.  A  rattling 


226  THE   RIVER 

good  story  the  Sun  would  have.  Bertha  would  read 
it  over  her  breakfast  rolls.  "This  is  history." 

Down  in  the  orchestra,  Barton  was  holding  a  hurry-up 
meeting  of  the  water  companies.  De  la  Vega  had  stepped 
back  and  was  consulting  with  Tod  Marshall. 

Babcock  pulled  out  his  watch,  his  gavel  calling  for 
attention.  This  time  he  was  heard. 

De  la  Vega  approached  the  footlights,  a  questioning 
look  on  his  face. 

"We  ask  for  a  little  time,"  began  Barton.  Instantly 
the  house  was  on  its  feet.  "Withdraw  the  suits.  Give 
him  your  answer.  Give  him  our  answer.  We  don't  want 
the  Service.  The  valley  don't  want  the  Service.  With 
draw  the  suits." 

Barton's  moon  face  looked  troubled.  "We  can't  answer 
for  all  the  ranchers." 

"Yes,  you  can,"  screamed  Grace,  jumping  up  and  down 
like  a  baboon.  "If  you  don't,  I'll  answer  for  them.  Don't 
you  see,  it's  a  trick?  It's  a  trick.  I  see  the  hand  of  the 
O.  P.  in  this."  Friendly  hands  pulled  him  down  into 
his  seat. 

The  audience  was  chanting.  "Withdraw  the  suits. 
Take  your  medicine. — Don't  lose  the  concession. — Lord, 
the  Service! — Give  them  the  answer,  now." 

Barton  held  up  a  withered  hand.  The  undeveloped 
body  was  dignified  by  the  splendid  head.  "Don't  with 
draw  your  concession.  I  think  I  can  say  that  Mexico 
will  not  be  sued." 

Again,  the  shout  went  up.  "Answer  like  a  man. 
Think!  Good  lord!  Say  we  withdraw  the  suits!" 

"We  withdraw  the  claims  against  Mexico."  Barton 
sat  down  to  a  sudden  hush.  The  first  blood  had  been  let. 


MORE    ORATORY  227 

Once  more  Babcock's  glasses  swept  the  house.  He 
rapped  the  table. 

"That's  not  all.  We've  got  more  to  say  to  you.  Gen 
tlemen,  Mr.  Marshall." 

Marshall  stepped  forward  to  a  silence  which  was  a 
variety  of  tribute. 

He  bowed.  "I  will  be  brief.  Mr.  Faraday  has  asked 
me  to  take  his  place  here  this  afternoon.  It's  only  fair. 
If  it  were  not  for  my  interference,  he  would  not  be  in 
volved  in  this  situation.  I  think  you  will  grant  that  it  is 
Mr.  Faraday's  company  which  can  save  the  valley?" 

"To  save  its  own  tracks!"  yelled  a  voice  from  the 
balcony. 

Marshall  sent  a  soft  smile  heavenward.  "Incidentally. 
And  its  traffic.  Why  don't  you  say  it?  We  don't  deny 
that.  The  Overland  Pacific's  no  altruist." 

There  was  a  jeer  which  rose  into  a  chorus.  "Altruist ! 
Octopus.  That's  what  it  is."  \  u/jfcA,  ' 

Marshall's  hand  went  up.  "If  you  want  to  hear  me?" 
He  waved  away  Babcock's  descending  gavel.  "I  was 
told  it  would  cost  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  to  close 
that  break  of  yours.  Do  you  want  the  actual  figures? 
It  has  eaten  already  a  million,  and  the  work  is  not 
yet  done.  You  know  the  history  of  the  undertaking. 
The  Desert  Reclamation  Company  was  in  straits.  Fara 
day  promised  his  help  on  the  condition  that  the  affairs 
of  the  Desert  Reclamation  Company  would  be  controlled 
by  his  company.  He  took  the  control.  He  inherited — 
what?  Not  good  will.  Threats,  damage  suits.  Do  you 
think  that  snow-slide  of  complaints  is  going  to  encourage 
him  to  go  on?  This  is  what  I  came  here  to  talk  to  you 
about.  You  ranchers  don't  want  to  cut  your  own  throat. 


228  THE   RIVER 

Now,  there's  a  good  deal  going  on  about  which  you  are 
in  the  dark.  Faraday's  got  a  right  to  feel  he's  shoul 
dered  an  old  man  of  the  sea.  He's  been  trying  to  dislodge 
it.  He's  appealed  to  the  president.  Ever  since  we  came 
into  this,  the  cry  from  Washington  has  been,  'Do  this  the 
way  we  like,  or  we'll  not  take  it  off  your  hands/  "  A 
murmur  of  angry  voices  started  somewhere,  swelling 
toward  the  balcony. 

"We  don't  want  the  government — "  began  the  rising 
voices.  Marshall's  voice  rang  out: 

"But  the  government  wants — you!  Unless  you  will 
help  save  your  own  homes,  the  government  will  have  to, 
in  time.  It's  got  to.  Up  there  at  Laguna,  have  you  seen 
it?  There's  nothing  going  on.  They're  watching  us. 
That's  a  useless  toy  if  our  works  are  washed  out.  Fara 
day  says  this  to  you — "  Not  a  sound  in  the  stilled  house. 
"Unless  you  withdraw  your  damage  suits,  he  won't  ad 
vance  another  damned  cent." 

Sharply  he  sat  down  before  the  audience  realized  that 
his  message  was  finished.  The  house  had  not  found  its 
voice,  when  Babcock's  gavel  was  pounding  again  for  at 
tention.  The  question,  he  felt,  had  not  been  put  to  them 
completely.  Perhaps,  they  did  not  gather  the  full  import 
of  Mr.  Marshall's  message.  Mr.  MacLean  would  follow 
Mr.  Marshall. 

MacLean's  superb  figure  rose  from  a  tree-paneled 
background. 

"He  should  sing  Brown  October  Ale,"  suggested 
Brandon  to  Hardin  humorously. 

Hardin's  eyes  were  on  MacLean.  What  did  he  know 
about  it  ?  What  could  he  tell  those  men  that  they  did  not 
know?  MacLean  was  a  figurehead  in  the  reorganized 
irrigation  company.  Why  hadn't  they  called  on  him, 


MORE    ORATORY  229 

Hardin?  He  knew  more  about  the  involved  history  of 
the  two  companies  than  the  whole  bunch  on  the  stage 
down  yonder.  He  could  have  told  them,  he  could  have 
called  on  their  justice,  their  memory — 

MacLean  was  speaking. 

"Mr.  Marshall  has  likened  the  river  project  to  the  old 
man  of  the  sea.  He  has  it  on  his  back,  while  it  is  busily 
kicking  him  in  the  shins! 

"Mr.  Marshall  has  given  you  Mr.  Faraday's  message. 
He  has  asked  you  to  dismiss  your  damage  suits.  I  ask 
you  to  do  more  than  that.  Put  your  hands  in  your 
pockets !  Come  out  and  help  us.  You  don't  want  the 
government.  I  am  told  that  is  the  sentiment  of  the 
valley.  When  you  called  to  them,  they  wouldn't  help 
you;  they  wouldn't  give  you  an  adequate  price.  Con 
gress  will  soon  be  adjourning.  What  is  Mr.  Faraday 
to  say  to  Washington  ?  Is  he  going  to  close  that  break  ? 
That  depends  on  you.  Withdraw  your  suits.  Do  more. 
Stop  fighting  against  us.  Fight  with  us — " 

The  audience  stirred  ominously,  angrily.  Before  Mac- 
Lean  was  done,  a  voice  screamed  from  the  balcony.  "You 
can't  quit.  That's  a  threat.  You're  in  too  deep.  You 
can't  fool  us.  You've  got  to  save  yourself.  You've  got 
to  go  on.  Tell  Faraday  to  tell  that  to  Washington." 

The  uproar  was  released.  Black,  from  the  Wistaria, 
jumped  on  his  chair.  "I  am  speaking  for  the  valley. 
We  can't  help.  You  know  it.  We're  stripped.  We're 
ruined.  You  think  to  threaten  us  with  the  government — 
if  we  wait  for  the  government  to  decide,  the  valley  is 
gone — and  the  railroad's  money  with  it.  I  tell  you,  your 
bluff  won't  go.  We  want  justice.  We  are  going  to  have 
justice." 

"Justice!"  came  from  the  surging  ranchers. 


230  THE   RIVER 

"Fair  play,"  yelled  Black.  "You  can't  trick  us.  We 
were  not  born  yesterday.  We  have  rights.  The  com 
pany  brought  us  here.  What  did  we  give  our  money 
for?  Desert  land?  What  good  is  this  land  without 
water  ?  We  bought  water — we  were  pledged  water.  Give 
us  back  the  money  we've  put  in — that's  what  we're  asking 
for.  We  won't  be  scared  out  of  our  rights." 

There  was  a  growling  accompaniment  from  the  back 
rows,  herding  together. 

"Order,"  cried  Babcock,  thumping  his  gavel.  "Let 
Mr.  Black  have  the  floor." 

Black  had  not  stopped.  Wildly  his  hands  cut  the  air. 
His  speech,  though  high-pitched,  had  a  prepared  sound ; 
it  worked  toward  a  climax.  He  gave  individual  in 
stances  of  ruin.  "Grace,  Willard  Grace,  his  crop  gone, 
his  place  cut  in  two.  Hollister  and  Wilson,  of  the  Palo 
Verde,  the  ranch  a  screaming  horror.  Scores  of  others." 
He  would  not  mention  his  own  case ;  and  then  he  item 
ized  his  misfortunes.  Parrish,  his  place  scoured  beyond 
all  future  usefulness.  What  had  they  come  into  the  val 
ley  for?  Who  had  urged  them?  There  were  pledges 
of  the  D.  R.,  water  pledges.  That  was  all  those  ruined 
men  were  pleading,  the  redemption  of  those  pledges.  In 
dividual  ruin,  what  did  it  mean?  A  curtailing  of  lux 
uries,  of  personal  indulgence.  "I  tell  you,  it  means  food, 
bread,  potatoes ;  milk  for  the  babies ;  or  starvation." 

Black  had  touched  the  deep  note.  This  was  the  an 
swer.  This  was  what  they  wanted  to  say. 

"You  ask  us  to  help  you,  us,  we  who  are  taxed  already 
to  our  breaking  point.  You  say  your  company  won't 
go  any  further.  What  does  that  help  mean  to  you? 
Poverty?  A  few  thousands,  a  million  to  the  O.  P.,  a 
corporation,  what  does  a  loss  mean  to  them?  Poverty! 


MORE   ORATORY  231 

I  tell  you,  no.  A  smaller  dividend,  maybe,  to  whom? 
Yes,  to  whom?  To  the  men  who  live  in  Fifth  Avenue, 
whose  wives  are  dragged  about  in  limousines.  With 
draw  their  suits?  Help  Faraday,  and  ruin  men  like 
Parrish?  Men  of  the  valley,  what  is  your  answer  to 
Faraday?" 

The  crowd  was  on  its  feet,  swaying  and  pushing.  The 
air  was  fetid  with  breaths.  Wilson's  crowd  had  for 
gotten  its  lorgnettes.  "No,"  yelled  the  ranchers.  "We 
say,  no." 

A  boy  made  his  way  from  the  wings,  a  yellow  en 
velope  in  his  hand. 

Babcock  waved  him  on  to  Marshall.  The  audience 
was  crying  itself  hoarse.  Babcock  lost  control  of  the 
meeting  in  that  minute  of  turning.  Hollister,  of  the 
Palo  Verde,  was  striving  to  be  heard ;  Babcock's  hammer 
sounded  in  vain.  But  Marshall's  eye  had  caught  a  spark 
from  the  yellow  sheet.  He  sprang  forward,  throwing 
the  despatch  toward  MacLean.  His  excitement  caught 
the  eye  of  the  crowd.  "The  river !"  There  was  a  sudden 
hush.  "The  river's  out  again !"  A  groan  swept  through 
the  house,  there  was  a  break  toward  the  doors. 

Marshall's  voice  halted  them.  "Men  of  the  valley." 
The  audience,  swayed  again,  listened.  "Hear  me.  The 
river's  running  away  again  down  yonder.  This  is  a 
message  from  Rickard.  It's  broken  through  the  levee. 
It's  started  for  the  valley.  Now,  who's  going  to  stop 
it?  Who  can  stop  it?  Can  you?  Where's  your  force, 
your  equipment  ?  Who  can  rush  to  that  call  but  the  com 
pany  you  are  hounding?  I  gave  you  Faraday's  message. 
His  hand's  on  the  table.  Not  another  cent  from  him 
unless  you  withdraw  those  suits.  You  say  you  have 
given  me  your  answer,  Black's  answer.  Now  the  river 


232  THE   RIVER 

plays  a  trick.  It  calls  your  bluff.  Shall  we  stop  the  river, 
men  of  the  valley?  We  can.  Will  you  withdraw  your 
suits?  You  can.  What  is  your  answer  now,  Imperial 
Valley?" 

The  scene  broke  into  bedlam.  Men  jumped  to  their 
chairs,  to  the  velvet  rim  of  the  boxes,  all  talking,  scream 
ing,  gesticulating  at  once.  The  Yellow  Dragon  was  never 
so  fearfully  visualized.  Out  of  the  chaos  of  men's  voices 
came  a  woman's  shriek,  "For  God's  sake,  save  our 
homes."  It  pitched  the  panic  note.  "Save  the  valley! 
Stop  the  river!" 

Marshall's  Indian  eyes  were  reading  that  mass  of 
scared  faces  as  though  it  were  a  sheet  of  typed  paper. 
"Barton,"  he  called  through  the  din.  "Where's  Barton?" 

Two  men  lifted  Barton's  puny  figure  upon  their  shoul 
ders.  His  vibrant  voice  rolled  above  the  shouting.  "The 
valley  withdraws  its  suits  against  the  company." 

"Then  the  company,"  yelled  Marshall's  oratory,  "the 
company  withdraws  the  river  from  the  valley!"  Pan 
demonium  was  loose.  There  were  cheers,  and  the  sound 
of  women  sobbing.  Barton  was  carried  out  on  the  shoul 
ders  of  his  henchmen.  Black  led  a  crowd  out,  haranguing 
to  the  street.  Morton's  party  waited  for  the  house  to 
empty.  De  la  Vega,  from  the  wings,  watched  the  scene 
with  polite  curiosity. 

Picking  their  way  past  a  painted  side  shift  of  merry 
England,  MacLean  and  Babcock  followed  Marshall  from 
the  stage. 

On  the  street,  Marshall  fell  back  to  MacLean.  "That 
was  a  neat  trick  the  river  threw  in  our  hands."  His  voice 
had  dropped  from  oratory ;  the  declaiming  fire  was  gone 
from  the  black  eyes.  "It's  only  a  break  in  the  levee. 
Rickard  says  he  can  control  it;  estimates  two  weeks  or 


MORE    ORATORY  233 

so.  It  may  cost  the  O.  P.  a  few  thousand  dollars,  but  it 
saved  them  half  a  million.  Now  we'll  have  that  game 
of  poker,  MacLean!" 

In  the  balcony,  Hardin  was  staring  at  Brandon. 

"If  that  wasn't  the  devil's  own  luck !" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A    SOFT    NOOK 

TNNES  traveled,  gleefully,  in  a  caboose,  from  Ham- 
JL  lin  Junction  to  the  Heading.  She  could  not  stay 
away  a  day  longer !  Never  before  had  Los  Angeles  been 
a  discipline.  Her  surprise  was  still  fresh  over  the  change 
in  her  friends,  two  girls  who  had  been  her  comrades 
during  her  unfinished  college  course.  She  had  left,  in 
the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice,  to  look  after  Tom.  They  had 
finished,  but  their  two  years  of  wifehood  had  made  a 
wider  gap  than  her  break.  Their  plans  of  individual  ac 
complishment  all  merged  into  new  curtains  for  the  guest 
chamber,  and  surprise  dishes  for  Tom  and  Harry !  Why 
had  it  fretted  her,  made  her  restless,  homesick?  Then 
she  had  discovered  the  reason;  history  was  going  on 
down  yonder.  Going  on,  without  her.  She  knew  that 
that  was  what  was  pulling  her ;  that  only ! 

The  exodus  of  engineers  had  started  riverward  in  July. 
Gerty  went  with  Tom,  and  she  had  made  it  distinctly 
clear  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  Innes  to  follow  them. 
Ridiculous  for  two  women  to  coddle  a  Tom  Hardin! 
Unless  Innes  had  a  special  interest! 

Her  pride  had  kept  her  away.  But  Tom  did  not  write ; 
Gerty's  letters  were  social  and  unsatisfactory;  the  news 
paper  reports  inflamed  her.  The  day  before  she  had 

234 


A    SOFT    NOOK  235 

wired  Tom  that  she  was  coming.  She  had  to  be  there 
at  the  end ! 

There  was  no  one  to  meet  her.  Tom  was  down  on 
the  levee  work ;  the  camp  was  deserted.  She  found  her 
way  to  the  Hardin  tents,  helped  by  the  Chinese  cook 
whom  she  found  installed  behind  a  clump  of  mesquits. 

Gerty  welcomed  her  stiffly.  Assuming  a  conscientious 
hostess-ship,  she  caught  fire  at  her  waning  enthusiasms. 
The  arrangement  of  the  tent,  of  the  simple  furniture,  did 
not  Innes  find  it  sweet?  That  smaller  tent  to  the  west 
of  theirs  had  been  added  that  morning.  A  Mexican  was 
even  then  carrying  in  a  wash-stand  and  an  iron  bed.  Out 
side,  in  a  hand-cart,  were  a  couple  of  chairs,  a  basin  and 
pitcher  of  gray  enamel. 

"If  we  had  known  you  were  coming,  we  would  have 
been  ready  for  you,"  suggested  Gerty. 

Innes'  gaze  had  been  turning  outward  to  the  lines  of 
canvas,  making  a  white  glitter  on  the  alkali  floor  of  the 
encampment,  trapezium  in  shape.  Stark  in  outline,  vivid 
in  color,  she  saw  the  desert  again  as  a  savage ;  her  terms, 
brutal,  uncompromising.  But  were  they  taking  her  on 
her  terms,  these  intruders  ?  They  were  making  her  over 
to  their  wishes,  as  a  man  makes  unto  his  liking  the  wife 
of  his  satisfied  choice?  She  was  following  a  thought 
born  of  her  late  visit.  Strange,  the  zeal  which  would 
remake  the  sweetheart,  thought  peerless!  Her  mouth 
curved  with  ironic  tenderness.  Gerty's  treble  notes  fell 
around  her  ears.  She  was  listening  to  her  own  musing, 
and  watching  the  dripping  arm  of  the  dredge  as  it  dug 
a  trap  for  the  Colorado. 

The  prattle  grew  insistent,  interrogative.  She  had  to 
look  at  shelves,  at  cupboards,  at  a  clever  ramada  which 
was  both  pergola  and  porch.  Returning  to  the  outer 


236  THE   RIVER 

tent,  she  went  back  to  the  door,  her  Hardin  pulse  leap 
ing  to  the  implication  of  that  dredge  arm  swinging  low 
in  the  river. 

"Isn't  it  all  cozy?"  Gerty's  eyes  shone  on  her  con 
trivances.  "It  all  means  work.  It  has  taken  two  whole 
months  to  get  it  to  look  like  this.  Every  piece  of  lumber 
had  to  be  coaxed  for,  and  you'd  think  the  carpenter  was 
a  ward  boss,  he's  that  haughty." 

Gerty  looked  younger  and  prettier.  Her  flush  ac 
cented  her  childish  features  which  were  smiling  down 
her  annoyance  over  this  uninvited  visit. 

"I  had  the  ramada  put  up  after  the  shed;  an  after 
thought.  They  gave  me  a  tent  for  a  kitchen  at  first — as 
if  I  could  cook  in  a  tent!  We  eat  in  the  ramada.  The 
flies  ate  us  up,  so  I  sent  for  screen  wire,  and  had  it  en 
closed.  It  isn't  perfect,  but  it's  much  better  than  it  was. 
The  flies  will  get  through  that  roof.  It  keeps  one  busy 
to  remember  to  have  fresh  brush  piled  over  it.  It  dries 
so  quickly  in  this  sun.  Isn't  it  hot  here?  Hotter  than 
the  towns  ever  were;  don't  you  think  so?" 

Innes  said  she  had  not  been  there  long  enough  yet  to 
tell! 

"We  have  all  the  home  comforts,  haven't  we?"  Innes' 
gaze  swept  the  disguised  tent  with  its  home-made 
sketches  and  cushions  and  art-nouveau  lamp-shades — - 
even  the  green  mandarin  skirt  had  found  a  place  on  the 
center-table  made  of  rough  pine.  "Why  shouldn't  we 
be  comfortable  when  we  are  to  be  here  for  months  ?  I'm 
going  to  brave  it  out — to  the  bitter  end,  even  if  I  bake. 
It  is  my  duty — "  She  would  make  her  intention  per 
fectly  clear !  "There  ought  to  be  at  least  one  cozy  place, 
one  soft  nook  that  suggests  a  woman's  presence.  We 


A   SOFT   NOOK  237 

have  tea  here  in  the  afternoon,  sometimes.  Mr.  Rick- 
ard  drops  in."  The  last  was  a  delicate  stroke. 

"Afternoon  tea?  At  the  Front?  Is  this  modern  war 
fare  ?"  The  girl  draped  her  irony  with  a  smile. 

"Warfare  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?"  Gerty  turned  from 
the  new  chafing-dish  and  percolator  she  had  intended 
showing  to  Innes. 

"I  thought  this  was  a  battle." 

"All  the  more  reason  for  having  a  pleasant  corner  to 
rest  in,"  triumphed  Mrs.  Hardin.  "And  the  comfort  the 
men  take  in  it,  the  Service  men  especially !  By  the  way, 
Innes,  I  met  Mr.  Estrada  on  the  Delta  last  evening  and 
told  him  you  were  coming.  I  asked  him  to  take  you  over 
the  encampment.  He  was  perfectly  willing  to  do  it,  al 
though  it's  an  old  story  to  all  of  them,  now.  You've  no 
idea  how  many  newspaper  men  have  been  down  here.  It's 
been  quite  exciting."  She  caught  herself  in  time  to  add : 
"Though  it  has  been  unendurably  hot !  This  is  a  model 
camp,  as  you  will  see.  That's  why  Mr.  Rickard  can  get 
such  work  out  of  his  men;  he  has  made  them  so  com 
fortable." 

"You  need  not  have  gone  to  so  much  trouble — "  Innes 
told  herself  that  she  was  perverse.  Just  peevishness  to 
dislike  plans  being  made  for  her!  Gerty's  polite  sen 
tences  had  a  way  of  ruffling  her.  She  ought  not  to  sus 
pect  deviousness. 

Gerty  was  stealing  a  pleased  survey  in  the  mirror 
through  the  rough  door  that  opened  into  the  division 
called  her  bedroom.  The  sunburned,  unconscious  profile 
of  Innes  was  close  to  her  own.  Pink  and  golden  the 
head  by  the  dark  one.  She  looked  younger  even  than 
Innes!  Good  humor  returned  to  her. 


238  THE   RIVER 

"We  are  going  to  dine  on  the  Delta  to-night."  She 
pinned  up  a  "scolding  lock,"  an  ugly  misnomer  for  her 
sunny  clinging  curls!  The  mirror  was  requisitioned 
again.  "That's  the  name  of  the  new  dredge.  It  was 
christened  three  weeks  ago,  in  champagne  brought  from 
Yuma." 

"You  christened  it?"  Innes,  following  a  surmise, 
stumbled  on  a  grievance. 

"No!"  sharply.  Then  a  minute  later,  "They'd  asked 
Mrs.  Silent,  old  man  Hamlin's  daughter.  I  suppose  Mr. 
Rickard  thought  he  had  to.  Mr.  Hamlin's  the  pioneer 
here,  he's  such  a  dreadful  old  man.  Besides,  they're  al 
ways  asking  the  men  up  to  dinner.  They  can  get  a  real 
meal  there, —  Mrs.  Silent  has  a  stove,  and  they  keep 
chickens."  She  frowned  toward  the  chafing-dish  and 
percolator ;  stern  limitations  theirs  ! 

"You  said  dine  on  the  Delta.  Do  you  mean  they  have 
meals  there?" 

"You  should  see  it,"  cooed  Gerty.  "It's  simply  ele 
gant.  It's  a  floating  hotel,  has  every  convenience.  Some 
of  the  young  engineers  have  a  sort  of  club  there,  they 
have  brought  in  their  own  cook  from  Los  Angeles.  The 
camp  cook,  Ling,  has  his  hands  full.  He  does  very  well, 
but  it  must  be  very  rough.  The  Delta  has  worked 
things  up  here." 

"Going  to  wear  that?"  They  were  standing  now  by 
the  door  of  Gerty's  dressing  tent.  Over  the  bed  a  white 
lingerie  gown  was  spread. 

"I  live  in  them.     It's  so  hot,"  shrugged  Mrs.  Hardin. 

"However  do  you  manage  to  get  them  washed?" 

Mrs.  Hardin  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  relate  her 
struggles,  nor  her  chagrin  to  find  that  no  one  thought 
important  the  delivery  of  her  weekly  wash  to  Yuma. 


A   SOFT   NOOK  239 

Only  because  she  would  resent  possible  comment  did  she 
refrain  from  recounting  her  trials  with  Indian  washer 
women.  She  recalled  some  tattered  experiments  that 
she  had  made — 

"I'll  look  like  your  maid,  Gerty!"  Innes'  exclamation 
was  rueful.  "I  didn't  bring  anything  but  khakis." 

"If  that  isn't  just  like  you,  Innes  Hardin!" 

"Why,  I  thought  of  you  as  living  in  the  most  primitive 
way ;  as  roughing  it !  Oh,  yes !  I  remember  throwing  in, 
the  last  minute,  two  piques  to  fill  up  space.  But  I  never 
dreamed  I'd  need  them." 

"Why,  we  have  dances  on  the  Delta,  and  Sunday 
evening  concerts;  you'll  be  surprised  how  gay  we  are. 
You  knew  the  work  at  Laguna  Dam  is  being  held  up? 
The  government  men  of  the  Reclamation  Service  are 
down  here  all  the  time.  But  it's  time  to  be  getting 
ready." 

"You'll  be  ashamed  of  your  sister.  Tom's  going,  of 
course  ?" 

"There's  no  'of  course'  about  Tom,  he  does  just  as 
he  feels  like." 

Later,  Tom  flatly  refused  to  accompany  them. 

"I  thought  as  much."  Gerty  shrugged  an  airy  irre 
sponsibility.  Innes  could  detect  no  regret. 

"Where  will  you  get  your  dinner?"  His  sister  was 
uncertain  how  far  she  might  venture  into  this  domestic 
situation. 

"Oh,  anywhere,"  brusked  Tom. 

"At  the  mess  table,  the  regular  eating  tent.  He  usu 
ally  goes  there  when  there  is  a  dinner  at  the  Delta.  He 
doesn't  dance,  you  know." 

They  passed  a  cot  outside  the  tent.  "Who  sleeps 
there?" 


240  THE   RIVER 

"Tom."    The  eyes  of  the  two  women  did  not  meet. 

Innes  made  no  comment. 

"He  finds  the  tent  stuffy."  Gerty's  lips  were  prim 
with  reserve.  They  walked  toward  the  river  in  silence. 
As  they  reached  the  encampment,  Gerty  recovered  her 
vivacity. 

"That's  Mr.  Rickard's  office,  that  ramada.  Isn't  it 
quaint?  And  that's  his  tent;  no,  the  other  one.  Mac- 
Lean's  is  next ;  we  all  call  him  Junior  now.  The  kitchen's 
behind  those  mesquit  trees.  They  gave  the  only  shade 
in  the  camp  to  the  cook!"  She  made  a  grimace  men 
would  have  found  adorable,  lost  quite  on  Innes  Hardin. 

"There's  Junior,  now,"  dimpled  Gerty  Hardin. 

But  his  eyes  were  too  full  of  Innes  to  see  mature 
dimples.  His  boyishness  lacked  tact.  It  was  nearly  three 
months  since  he  had  seen  her;  a  desert  of  days,  those! 
The  difference  in  the  quality  of  his  greetings  smote 
Gerty  like  a  blow.  Until  her  mirror  told  her  differently 
she  would  feel  youthful.  And  she  had  never  considered 
Tom's  sister  attractive,  as  a  possible  rival.  Yet,  after  a 
handshake,  she  saw  that  to  MacLean,  Jr.,  she  did  not 
exist. 

A  boat  was  anchored  to  a  pile  on  the  muddy  stream. 
MacLean  jumped  in.  "I'll  hold  it  steady." 

Innes  scrambled  past  his  waiting  hand,  and  steadied 
herself  toward  the  stern.  "I'll  steer." 

Mrs.  Hardin  and  her  lace  ruffles  were  placed  carefully 
in  the  bow. 

"Can  you  climb  up  that  ladder?"  MacLean  asked 
Innes. 

"Climb?     I'm  a  cat!     Didn't  you  know  it?" 

A  group  of  welcoming  faces  was  bending  over  the 
rail  as  they  drew  up  in  the  shadow  of  the  dredge.  Innes 


A    SOFT    NOOK  24! 

was  on  the  ladder  before  MacLean  could  secure  the  boat. 
She  had  disappeared  with  the  welcoming  young  engi 
neers  who  had  much  to  show  her,  before  Mrs.  Hardin 
and  her  lace  ruffles  were  over  the  side. 

Gerty  was  deeply  piqued.  Until  now,  the  field  had 
been  hers,  divided  distantly  by  the  Silent  kitchen.  She 
might  perhaps  have  to  change  her  opinion  of  Tom's 
sister.  Boys,  she  had  to  concede,  the  younger  men, 
might  find  her  attractive,  boyishly  congenial;  older  men 
would  fail  to  see  a  charm ! 

The  arrangement  at  table  annoyed  Gerty.  The  boss, 
MacLean  explained  gaily,  would  not  be  there  for  dinner. 
He  had  been  called  down  the  levee,  taking  Irish  with 
him.  He  might  come  in  later.  Two  men  from  the 
Reclamation  Service  tried  to  entertain  Mrs.  Hardin. 

"Did  you  get  Jose  Cordoza?"  demanded  Bodefeldt 
under  cover  of  a  rush  of  voices,  and  then  crimsoned 
because  every  one  stopped  to  listen  to  him. 

"He  promised  to  bring  his  guitar,  and  to  get  a  friend 
who  has  a  mandolin,  if  the  strings  are  not  broken!" 
laughed  Crothers  of  the  railroad. 

"Cordoza  plays  wonderfully !"  cried  Mrs.  Hardin.  "If 
I  were  eighty,  I  could  dance  to  his  waltzes !" 

"The  deck's  ripping,"  cried  MacLean,  his  eyes  still 
full  of  Innes  Hardin,  "and  in  the  moonlight  it's  a 
pippin !" 

"It  isn't  a  battle."  Innes  looked  around  the  gay  rect 
angle.  "It's  play!" 

The  thought  followed  her  that  evening.  Outside, 
where  the  moonlight  was  silvering  the  deck,  and  the 
quiet  river  lapped  the  sides  of  the  dredge,  Jose's  strings, 
and  his  "amigo's"  throbbing  from  a  dark  corner,  made 
the  illusion  of  peace  convincing.  This  was  no  battle. 


242  THE   RIVER 

* 

Breck,  of  tHe  Reclamation  Service,  was  dancing  witK 
her.  The  modern  complexity  of  the  situation  fell  away 
from  her;  the  purpose  of  the  Delta,  of  the  gathering! 
army  of  laborers,  of  the  pile-drivers  in  the  river,  was 
obscured.  The  concentrating  struggle  against  the  ma 
rauding  Dragon  of  the  Colorado  delta,  that  was  the  il 
lusion.  It  was  easy  to  believe  herself  again  at  Mare 
Island,  or  Annapolis — the  Delta  a  cruiser,  and  young 
Breck  one  of  Uncle  Sam's  sailors. 

Later,  Gerty  passed  her,  two-stepping  divinely.  Be 
fore  her  partner  turned  his  head,  Innes  recognized  the 
stiff  back  and  straight  poised  head  and  dancing  step  of 
Rickard.  Every  muscle  in  control ;  it  was  the  distinction 
of  the  man.  She  admitted  he  had  distinction,  grudgingly. 
She  could  not  think  of  him  except  comparatively ;  always 
antithetically,  balanced  against  her  Tom.  She  wished 
Tom  would  not  slouch  so.  Tom  had  all  the  big  virtues, 
none  of  his  faults  was  petty.  But  he  was  being  nagged 
into  unloveliness. 

"I'm  tired ;  let's  rest  here."  She  drew  into  the  shadow 
of  the  great  arm  of  the  dredge.  They  watched  the 
dancers  as  they  passed,  MacLean  playing  the  woman  in 
"Pete's"  arms,  Gerty  with  Rickard,  two  other  masculine 
couples.  The  Hardins  were  the  only  women  aboard. 

It  was  because  of  Tom  that  Innes  felt  resentment  when 
the  uplifted  appealing  chin,  the  lace  ruffles  fluttered  by. 
Tom,  lying  outside  an  unfriendly  tent ! 

"Don't  they  dance  superbly?"  Breck's  eyes  were  fol 
lowing  the  couple,  too. 

"Come  on,  let's  dance."  She  pretended  not  to  hear 
him. 

It  was  easy,  in  that  uncertain  light,  to  avoid  Rickard's 
•  glance  of  recognition.  Estrada,  who  had  come  aboard 


A    SOFT    NOOK  243 

with  the  manager,  sought  her  out,  and  then  Crothers,  of 
the  O.  P.  Again,  she  saw  Rickard  dancing  with  the 
lingerie  gown.  There  seemed  to  be  no  attempt  to  cover 
Gerty's  preference ;  for  Rickard,  she  was  the  only  woman 
there!  Because  she  was  Tom's  sister,  she  had  a  right 
to  resent  it,  to  refuse  to  meet  his  eye.  Small  wonder 
Tom  did  not  come  to  the  Delta! 

Going  in  with  MacLean,  Jr.,  to  the  mess  room  for  a 
glass  of  water,  she  met  Rickard,  on  his  way  out.  She 
managed  to  avoid  shaking  hands  with  him.  She  won 
dered  why  she  had  consented  to  give  him  the  next  waltz. 

"He'll  not  find  me,"  she  determined.  Whatever  had 
made  her  assent  ?  Easy  in  that  womanless  group  to  plead 
engagements.  She  led  MacLean  into  innocent  but  eager 
conspiracy.  He  followed  her  gladly  to  the  dark  corner 
of  the  deck  where  Jose's  guitar  was  then  syncopating  an 
accompaniment  to  his  "amigo's"  voice. 

"A  donde  ira  veloz  y  fatigada, 
La  golondrina  que  de  aqui  se  va? 

"How  beautiful !"  cried  Innes.  "But  how  sad."  She 
had  picked  up  some  Spanish  in  the  towns.  "I  have  never 
heard  that  before."  She  leaned  over  and  asked  Jose  if  he 
would  not  write  it  out  for  her.  Unblushingly,  Jose  said 
he  would;  "Mariana." 

"Dollars  to  doughnuts,  he  can't  write  even  his  own 
name !"  whispered  Junior.  "But  I'll  see  that  you  get  it 
manana!"  he  added.  He  would  type  it  for;  anything 
she  wanted,  he  would  get  for  her! 

To  her  surprise,  Rickard  penetrated  her  curtain  of 
shadows. 

"Our  dance,  Miss  Hardin?  Give  us  Sobr*  Las  Olas, 
again,  Jose." 


244  THE    RIVER 

The  hand  that  barely  touched  his  arm  was  stiff  with 
antagonism.  He  stepped  off  at  once  to  the  music ;  they 
had  no  points  of  contact,  these  two.  No  eager  threads 
of  talk  to  be  picked  up  and  turned  into  a  pattern.  She 
told  herself  that  he  had  to  dance  with  her — politeness, 
conventionality,  demanded  it.  But,  instantly,  she  forgot 
her  resentment,  and  forgot  their  awkward  relation.  It 
was  his  dancing,  not  Gerty's,  then,  that  was  "superb." 
Anybody  could  find  skill  under  the  leadership  of  that 
irresistible  step.  She  was  just  an  ordinary  dancer,  yet 
she  felt  as  though  she  had  acquired  grace  and  skill.  And 
then  the  motion  claimed  her.  She  thought  of  nothing; 
they  moved  as  one  to  the  liquid  falling  beat.  She  passed 
Estrada,  just  arrived.  His  smile  fell  past  her.  He  stood 
watching  them.  The  girl  was  not  talking.  He  could  not 
make  out  the  still  fixity  of  her  face. 

The  music  dropped  them  suddenly,  isolating  them  at 
the  stern  of  the  deck.  The  silence  was  complete.  It 
was  a  moment  of  unreality,  the  rhythmic  blood  still  in 
motion,  the  wistfulness  of  the  moonlight  falling  on  peace 
ful  waters.  Rickard  broke  it  to  ask  her  what  she  thought 
of  the  camp. 

Her  resentments  were  recalled.  She  blundered 
through  her  impression  of  the  lightness,  the  gaiety. 

"So  you  think  we  ought  to  be  solemn?"  His  tone 
teased  her.  The  eyes  that  always  confused  Gerty  were 
on  her.  She  again  tried  to  be  vocal. 

"It  does  not  suggest  a  battle-ground,  I  mean.  The 
talk  to-night  at  table,  the  dancing,  the  fun !  It  does  not 
seem  like  a  battle  camp — " 

"You've  been  in  a  battle  camp,  Miss  Hardin?" 

She  would  not  be  flouted.  "The  atmosphere — it's  a 
camp  vacation." 


A   SOFT   NOOK  245 

"A  work  camp  does  not  have  to  be  solemn.  You'll 
find  all  the  grimness  you  want  if  you  look  beneath  the 
surface."  She  thought,  later,  of  what  she  might  have 
said  to  him,  but  then  she  stood  silent,  feeling  like  a  silly 
child  under  his  light  mockery. 

The  guitars  were  tuning  up.  "Shall  I  take  you  back? 
I  have  this  dance  with  your  sister." 

She  thought  of  Tom — on  his  lonely  cot  outside  his 
tent.  She  forgot  that  she  had  been  asked  a  question. 
He  was  dancing  again  with  Gerty!  If  that  silly  little 
woman  had  no  scruples,  no  fine  feeling,  this  man  should 
at  least  guard  her.  If  he  had  been  her  lover,  he  should 
be  careful;  he  must  see  that  people  were  talking  of 
them.  She  had  seen  the  glances  that  evening!  The 
business  relation  between  the  two  men  should  suggest 
tact,  if  not  decency!  It  was  outrageous. 

Rickard  stood  waiting  to  be  dismissed;  puzzled. 
Through  the  uncertain  light,  her  anger  came  to  him.  She 
looked  taller,  older;  there  was  a  flame  of  accusing  pas 
sion  in  her  eyes. 

It  was  his  minute  of  revelation.  So  that  was  what  the 
camp  thought!  The  wife  of  Hardin — Hardin!  Why, 
he'd  been  only  polite  to  her — they  were  old  friends.  What 
had  he  said  to  call  down  this  sudden  scorn?  "Dancing — 
again — "  Had  he  been  all  kinds  of  an  ass? 

"My  turn,  Miss  Innes!"  demanded  MacLean,  Jr. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  cried,  relief  in  her  tone. 

Rickard  did  not  claim  his  dance  with  Mrs.  Hardiu, 
He  stood  where  the  girl  had  left  him,  thinking.  A  few 
minutes  later,  Gerty  swept  by  in  the  arms  of  Breck.  Her 
light  laughter,  the  laughter  that  had  made  the  Lawrence 
table  endurable,  came  to  him  in  his  unseen  corner.  Later, 
came  Innes  with  Junior ;  the  two,  thinking  themselves  un- 


246  THE    RIVER 

seen,  romping  through  a  two-step  like  two  young  chil 
dren.  He  was  never  shown  that  side  of  her.  Gay  as  a 
young  kitten,  chatting  merrily  with  MacLean!  Should 
her  eyes  discover  him,  she  would  be  again  the  haughty 
young  woman! 

He'd  gone  out  of  his  way  to  be  polite  to  the  wife  of 
Hardin.  What  did  he  care  what  they  thought?  He'd 
finish  his  job,  and  get  out. 

The  sound  of  oars  came  to  him;  the  splashing  of 
waves  against  the  dredge.  He  leaned  over.  A  boat  was 
tying  by  the  ladder. 

"Hi,  below !"  called  Rickard. 

"Come  for  Air.  Crothers,"  the  voice  from  the  shad 
ows  answered.  "He  told  me  to  come  for  him  at  ten 
o'clock." 

"Hold  on!"  Rickard  was  clambering  over  the  side. 
"I'm  Rickard.  I've  got  to  get  back  to  camp.  You  can 
come  again  for  Crothers." 

A  minute  later,  he  was  being  rowed  back  to  camp. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE    STOKERS 

"COMPLETE,  isn't  it?"  Estrada  was  leading  Innes 
^~/  Hardin  through  the  engineers'  quarters. 

"Yes,  it's  complete!" 

Her  brother  had  told  her  at  breakfast  that  morning 
how  grandly  they  had  been  wasting  time!  She  would 
not  let  herself  admire  the  precision  of  the  arrangements, 
the  showers  back  of  the  white  men's  quarters,  the 
mesquit-shaded  kitchen.  Gerty's  elaborate  settling  was 
of  a  piece,  it  would  seem,  with  the  new  management. 
Housekeeping,  not  righting,  then,  the  new  order  of 
things ! 

Tom  was  afire  to  get  his  gate  done.  She  knew  what 
it  meant  to  him;  to  the  valley.  The  flood  waters  had 
to  be  controlled.  That  depended,  Tom  had  proved  to 
her,  on  the  gate.  And  the  men  dance  and  play  house, 
as  if  they  were  children,  and  every  day  counting! 

She  thought  she  was  keeping  her  accusations  to  her 
self,  but  Estrada  was  watching  her  face. 

"We  are  here,  you  know,  for  a  siege.  There  are 
months  of  work  ahead,  hot  months,  hard  months.  The 
men  have  got  to  be  kept  well  and  contented.  We  can't 
lose  any  time  by  sickness" —  He  wanted  to  add  "and 
dissensions."  The  split  camp  was  painful  to  him,  an 

247 


248  THE   RIVER 

Estrada/  "Even  after  we  finish  the  gate,  if  we  do  fin 
ish  it—" 

She  wheeled  on  him,  her  eyes  gleaming  like  deep 
yellow  jewels.  "You've  never  thought  we  could  finish 
it!" 

Estrada  Hesitated  over  his  answer. 

"You  are  a  friend  of  Tom's,  Mr.  Estrada?" 

"Surely!  But  I  am  also  an  admirer  of  Mr.  Rickard, 
I  mean  of  his  methods.  I  can  never  forget  the  levee." 

She  had  to  acknowledge  that  Rickard  had  scored  there. 
And  the  burning  of  the  machinery  had  left  a  wound 
that  she  still  must  salve. 

"You  have  no  confidence  in  the  gate?" 

"The  conditions  have  changed,"  urged  Estrada. 
"YouVe  seen  the  mess-tent?  As  it  was  planned,  it  was 
all  right,  a  hurry-up  defense.  Marshall  all  along  in 
tended  the  concrete  gate  for  the  permanent  intake.  Have 
/  you  seen  the  gap  the  Hardin  gate  is  to  close  ?  Have 
you  heard  what  the  last  floods  did  to  it?  It's  now 
twenty-six  hundred  feet,  and  Disaster  Island,  which  your 
brother  planned  to  anchor  to,  swept  away!  If  it  can 
be  done,  it  will,  you  can  rest  assured,  with  Rickard — " 
he  saw  the  Hardin  mouth  then! — "and  your  brother's 
zeal,  and  the  strength  of  the  railroad  back  of  them. 
I  haven't  shown  you  the  office  yet.  Can  you  stand  this 
glare?  You  ought  to  have  smoked  glasses." 

"I  have.  I  forgot  them."  /She  pulled  her  wide  Mexi 
can  brim  low  over  her  eyes. 

The  camp  formed  a  hollow  trapezium;  the  Hardins* 
tents,  and  Mrs.  Dowker's,  were  isolated  on  the  short 
parallel.  Rickard's  ramada  and  his  tent  were  huddled 
with  the  engineers'.  Across,  toward  the  river,  behind 
Ling's  mesquits,  began  another  polygon,  the  camp  of 


THE    STOKERS  249 

foremen  and  white  labor.  Some  of  these  tents  were 
empty. 

"Is  this  Mexico,  or  the  states?"  asked  Innes. 

"Mexico."  She  wondered  why  he  halted  so  abruptly. 
She  did  not  see,  for  the  glare  in  her  eyes,  a  woman's 
skirt  in  the  ramada  they  approached. 

Estrada  marched  on. 

Outside  the  ramada,  the  two  women  met.  Gerty's 
step  carried  her  past  like  a  high-bred  horse.  Her  high 
heels  cut  into  the  hard  sand.  There  was  a  suggestion 
of  prance  in  her  mien.  She  waved  her  hand  gaily  at 
the  two,  cried,  "How  hot  it  is !"  and  passed  on. 

Innes  saw  Rickard  at  his  long  pine  table  used  for  a 
desk. 

"I  can  see  it  all  from  here."  Not  for  money  would 
the  sister  of  Tom  Hardin  go  in! 

Estrada  saw  by  her  face  that  the  hope  of  conciliating 
the  ex-manager  by  the  sister  was  a  false  trail.  She 
threw  a  curt  nod  to  MacLean  whom  her  glance  just 
caught. 

"Where  are  we  going  now?" 

"I'm  planning  a  trip  to  Arizona !"  he  returned.  "You 
think  this  is  all  play.  Now  I'm  going  to  show  you  the 
'stokers.' " 

A  few  minutes  later,  he  called  out  to  her:  "Step 
high!" 

She  looked  at  the  ground,  and  then  inquiringly  at 
him.  The  ground  was  as  flat  as  a  hardwood  floor. 

"You  are  crossing  the  line,"  he  announced.  "You 
are  now  in  Arizona." 

"I  thought  the  Indian  camp  was  in  Mexico,  too?" 

"No,  across  the  river  to  avoid  custom's  duty.  See 
those  roofs  of  boughs?" 


250  THE   RIVER 

He  was  making  for  a  knoll  from  whence  they  could  get 
a  view  of  the  river,  and  of  the  Hardin  gate. 

Her  memory  isolated  a  word  of  his.  "The  stokers 
— who  are  they?" 

"We  call  them  that.  The  brush-cutters.  They  look 
for  all  the  world  like  the  poor  wretches  in  the  ship's 
engine-room." 

"Indians?" 

"I  wish  they  were.  No,  Mexicans.  Rickard  couldn't 
get  enough  Indians,  and  Mexicans  can't  stand  this." 

Beyond  them  stretched  the  river  of  yellow  waters, 
dividing  like  the  letter  Y,  the  east  branch  the  dry  bed 
of  the  Colorado.  From  a  distance  they  could  see  the 
great  arm  of  the  dredge  drop  into  the  mud  of  the  new 
channel,  by  which  the  water  was  to  be  diverted  through 
the  Hardin  gate.  Innes  watched  the  bucket  rise,  drip 
ping  with  soft  silt,  saw  the  elbow  crook  as  the  arm 
swung  slowly  toward  the  bank. 

"That's  where  you  danced  last  night,"  he  observed. 

"I  thought  I  was  on  a  cruiser!" 

"A  cruiser's  also  a  battle-ship!" 

A  hot  sweet  smell  rose  from  the  bank.  She  thought 
her  sudden  sway  of  faintness  was  from  the  sun. 

"It's  too  much  for  you.    That's  the  arrow-weed." 

"I've  smelt  arrow-weed  before.     This  is  different." 

"Not  in  quantity  before,  Miss  Hardin.  I  shouldn't 
have  brought  you  here.  We  will  go  back." 

"Is  this  what  they  are  cutting?" 

"They're  the  stokers." 

"I  don't  see  them."  Her  eyes  questioned  the  mat 
of  undergrowth. 

"You  can't." 

She  could  not  detect  a  human  figure  moving  in  the 


THE    STOKERS  251 

clot  of  branches.  Then  she  caught  the  gleam  of  a  ma 
chete.  A  face  peered  from  an  opening,  blackened  and 
strangling.  Her  cry  sounded  like  pain. 

"Oh,  did  you  see  him?"  Dripping  with  sweat,  gasp 
ing,  it  made  a  horrid  sight. 

"It's  not  all  play !"  he  observed. 

"Look  what  he  is  doing,  no,  not  that  one."  From 
the  tangle  came  running  a  dripping  human.  He  tossed 
his  hands,  staring  up  at  the  burning  bowl  of  a  sky. 
No  help  there!  The  sun-baked  sands,  glittering  like 
brass,  gave  no  escape.  He  raised  his  hands,  and  they 
could  see  him  take  the  poise  of  diver;  like  a  projectile 
he  shot  into  the  pool  of  living  green  beneath. 

"He  thinks  it's  water,"  whispered  Innes. 

"He's  got  it,"  cried  Estrada,  caught  with  excitement. 
"It's  a  madness.  One  man  died  yesterday." 

"Died!" 

"Why,  no  white  man,  for  they're  white,  those  Mexi 
can,  can  stand  that  hole.     It's  an  inferno.     There  have 
been  two  deaths  already.    If  another  goes,  they'll  walk 
out.     I've  told  Rickard;  he  knows.     They're  supersti-    , 
tious  as  niggers — the  third  death — they're  boiling  with  / 
discontent  already.     Then  where'll  we  be,  where'll  the 
gate  be  ?"    The  graceful  indolence  of  the  Cardenas  was 
gone;  he  was  all  Estrada  now,  vehement  and  impas 
sioned. 

"He  may  die?" 

"I  shouldn't  have  brought  you  here!" 

He  tried  to  get  her  away.  Her  eyes  would  not  leave 
that  pool  of  living  green,  the  hole  that  the  poor  wretch 
had  thought  was  cooling  waters.  The  .smell  oLcut  arrow- 
weed,  sickl3L_sw.eet,-.smote  against  her  nostrils.  Then 
she  saw  a  movement  in  the  undergrowth.  A  group  of 


252  THE   RIVER 

men  were  pulling  him  out — she  saw  his  face,  distorted, 
livid.  His  lips  were  chattering;  he  screamed  like  a 
raucous  ape. 

"Did  you  see  him?"  she  breathed. 

"I  saw  them"  his  answer  was  grim.  He  watched 
them,  their  composite  expression  foreboding,  as  they  bore 
to  camp  the  struggling  madman. 

"Is  he  really  mad?    Do  they  get  over  it?" 

"They  get  over  it!"  He  did  not  tell  her  how!  To 
divert  her,  he  told  her  that  these  were  the  men  for  whom 
Porter  had  been  scouring  Zacatecas. 

"Mexicans  don't  take  kindly  to  a  contract  when  it 
means  arrow-weed.  Rickard's  Indians  haven't  come  yet, 
the  men  Forestier's  promised ;  he's  the  Indian  agent.  The 
hoboes  are  still  wandering  in,  but  not  in  the  numbers  we 
expected.  Rickard  was  right.  You  can't  count  on  that 
sort  of  labor." 

Rickard  was  right  ?  She  glanced  sharply  at  the  beauti 
ful  face  of  her  companion.  Then  who  was  wrong?  She 
was  growing  sensitive,  ready  for  a  slight  to  hit  her 
brother. 

"If  they  go,  I  wouldn't  swap  places  with  Rickard." 
The  Mexican  was  moody. 

For  the  first  time,  she  forgot  to  notice  the  incongruity 
of  his  speech.  His  years  at  an  American  college  had 
given  him  a  vocabulary  which  belied  his  nationality.  She 
was  resenting  his  concern.  Every  one  thinking  of  Rick 
ard!  What  responsibility  was  his?  He  was  here  to 
direct  the  work,  but  if  it  failed,  was  the  stigma  not  all 
her  brother's?  She  flamed  into  speech. 

"It's  a  snap  for  him,  for  Mr.  Rickard,"  she  cried.  "All 
the  pioneering,  the  breaking  of  earth  has  been  done! 


THE    STOKERS  253 

Your  father,  Mr.  Estrada,  and  my  brother  paved  the 
way  for  him.  With  the  entire  equipment  of  a  great 
organization  like  the  O.  P.  behind  him — money,  men, 
everything,  it  isn't  fair.  He'll  walk  in  and  win,  and  the 
world  will  think  he  did  it." 

"You  wouldn't  like  it  to  fail,  would  you?  And  it's 
not  so  easy  as  you  think,  Miss  Hardin."  He  was  care 
fully  picking  his  way.  "He's  told  he  has  a  free  hand,  but 
he  hasn't.  The  work's  stopped  up  there  at  Laguna ; 
there's  no  use  going  on  with  that  until  we  make  good. 
If  we  can't  control  the  river  here,  their  quicksand  works 
go,  but  you  know  that?" 

She  nodded.    Tom  had  told  her  all  that. 

"Those  men  are  swarming  in  here  like  bees  to  honey. 
They've  been  told  to  help,  and  then  they  are  curious. 
They  have  all  got  ideas  of  their  own.  And  they're  talk 
ing  and  writing  to  the  higher-ups.  It  all  gets  back  to 
Rickard,  sooner  or  later." 

"He  doesn't  have  to  please  them,"  murmured  the  girl. 

"Not  directly.  But  the  O.  P.  didn't  go  into  this  for 
ever  !  The  road  was  the  most  deeply  interested  corpora 
tion  with  power.  Marshall  got  Faraday  to  promise  to 
put  up  the  money.  He  promised  to  make  it  good  with  his 
own  money  if  he  'couldn't  stop  the  river.  I  heard  this 
on  the  inside!  But  he  wanted  it  stopped  his  way.  He 
wanted  his  own  men  in,  men  who  would  take  his 
orders — "  he  pulled  himself  away  from  thin  ice.  "The 
O.  P.  did  not  expect  to  get  in  as  they  have.  Now,  they 
can't  get  out !  The  work's  got  to  please  the  Service  men, 
or  it  won't  be  recommended  to  the  government.  That's 
what's  tying  Rickard  up — that,  and  other  things." 

It  sounded  new  to  her. 


254  THE   RIVER 

"And  some  of  these  fellows  are  yelling  so,  you  can  hear 
them  in  Washington."  She  stole  an  amused  look  at  him. 
How  American  he  was! 

They  were  back  at  the  encampment.  Slowly,  they 
walked  across  the  open  space,  which  was  glittering  in  the 
sun.  Innes  was  acknowledging,  silently,  a  headache.  The 
trip,  she  said  to  herself,  had  depressed  her. 

When  they  reached  the  Hardin  tents,  she  felt  obliged 
to  offer  hospitality.  "Won't  you  come  in,  Mr.  Estrada  ? 
My  sister  would  love  to  make  a  cup  of  tea  for  you."  She 
knew  her  invitation  lacked  cordiality.  Her  temples  were 
bursting.  "It's  an  eye  headache,"  she  told  herself.  "I 
should  have  had  my  glasses." 

She  tried  to  forget  it  as  she  thanked  him  for  "her 
trip  into  Mexico,"  and  renewed  her  invitation  to  tea. 

He  said  he  had  to  go,  but  he  lingered.  He  said  good-by, 
and  stayed.  His  look  held  hers  for  that  instant,  the  look 
she  could  never  fathom.  Then  he  turned  away.  She 
watched  him  out  of  sight. 

At  table,  that  evening,  her  family  heard  with  surprise 
Gerty's  announcement  that  they  were  to  eat  in  the  mess- 
tent  with  the  men.  It  was  too  hot  to  cook  any  longer; 
this  had  been  one  of  the  hottest  days  in  the  year. 

"Let  me  cook !"  urged  Innes.  "It's  only  fair.  And  I 
want  to  do  something  to  justify  my  being  here."  Her 
words  recurred  to  Gerty  later. 

"Sometimes  the  autumn  heat  is  the  worst.  Besides, 
it  is  all  arranged.  We  begin  to-morrow.  You  heard  too, 
then,  what  Mr.  Rickard  said  about  not  wanting  women 
in  camp?" 

"No,  I  did  not!  But  to  be  here  without  doing  any 
thing,  just  being  one  more  mouth  to  feed,  and  head  to 
cover — I'd  feel  more  comfortable,"  she  added. 


THE    STOKERS  255 

"He  gave  it  out  in  the  towns  that  he  did  not  want 
men's  wives  or  families  following  them  to  the  Heading. 
He  made  an  exception  for  Mrs.  Parrish — she  was  too 
timid  to  leave,  and  Mrs.  Dowker,  and,  of  course,  it  was 
different  with  me." 

Innes  felt  uncomfortable. 

"It's  all  right  being  with  Tom,"  she  began. 

"Why  is  it  all  right?  Who  am  I?"  He  lifted  his  eyes 
from  his  plate.  It  came  home  to  Innes  that  it  was  not  his 
camp  any  longer.  She  thought,  then,  that  she  would  go 
back  to  Los  Angeles  the  next  week. 

She  expected  to  hear  a  protest  to  the  new  arrange 
ment  from  Tom.  She  was  to  see  a  new  development — 
sullen  resignation.  If  he  would  accept  it,  she  must  not 
argue.  Both  sister  and  brother  knew  why  it  was  too 
warm  to  cook  any  longer.  Gerty  found  them  both  dull. 

"That  poor  Mexican."  She  remembered  Estrada's 
concern.  "The  one  who  went  mad?  Have  you  heard 
how  he  was?" 

"Dead.     The  peons  are  all  stampeding." 

"Who's  stampeding?"  Gerty  came  back  from  a  deep 
reverie.  Lavender,  it  had  just  been  decided,  was  to  be 
the  color  of  the  next  frock.  It  was  cool  and  not  too  posi 
tive.  She  must  remember  to  send  out  for  samples  that 
day.  She  could  not  recall  having  heard  Rickard  express 
himself  about  colors.  She  wondered  if  he  had  prefer 
ences  or  aversions  to  shades.  He  must  like  green;  she 
remembered  he  had  admired  that  mandarin  skirt.  "And 
if  the  lavender  fades,  I  can  rinse  it  in  purple  ink." 

Innes  was  telling  Tom  of  the  tragedy  of  the  afternoon, 

"Oh,  don't,"  cried  Gerty,  pushing  away  her  plate.  "I 
can't  hear  of  such  things."  They  saw  that  her  pretty 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  "You  know  I  can't." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    WHITE    OLEANDER 

MRS.  Hardin's  descent  on  the  office  that  afternoon 
was  successful,  but  not  satisfactory.  She  had 
found  the  manager  brief  to  curtness.  She  was  given  no 
excuse  to  linger.  She  traced  Rickard's  manner  to  the 
presence  of  MacLean,  and  snatched  at  her  cue.  She,  too, 
could  be  businesslike  and  brief.  Her  errand  was  of 
business ;  her  manner  should  recommend  her ! 

Rickard  had  seen  her  making  straight  toward  the 
ramada.  It  was  not  the  first  time ;  her  efforts  to  line  her 
nest  had  involved  them  all  and  often.  But  to-day,  he 
was  in  a  bad  humor. 

"For  the  lord's  sake,"  he  groaned  to  MacLean  as 
she  approached.  "More  shelves !  I  wonder  if  she  thinks 
the  carpenters  have  nothing  to  do  but  rig  up  her  kitchen 
for  her?" 

MacLean's  grin  covered  relief.  He  had  never  heard 
Rickard  express  himself  on  the  subject  before.  Could 
he  believe,  he  speculated,  that  her  frequent  appeals  for 
assistance  were  serious?  "The  dead-set  Hardin's  wife 
was  making  at  Casey,"  was  the  choice  gossip  and  spec 
ulation  of  the  young  engineers  on  the  Delta. 

MacLean  had  a  bet  up  on  the  outcome.  He  grinned 
more  securely. 

"I  am  not  going  to  spare  any  more  carpenters,"  growled 

256 


THE   WHITE   OLEANDER  257 

Rickard.  It  was  an  inauspicious  day  for  Mrs.  Hardin's 
visit.  Things  had  gone  wrong.  Vexations  were  piling  up. 
A  tilt  with  Hardin  that  morning,  a  telegram  from  Mar 
shall;  he  was  feeling  sore.  Porter's  men  had  marched 
out,  carrying  their  dead.  Desperately  they  needed  labor. 
Wooster  had  just  reported,  venomously,  it  appeared  to 
Rickard's  spleen,  increasing  drunkenness  among  the 
Indians. 

Gerty's  ruffles  swept  in.  Her  dress,  the  blue  mull  with 
the  lace  medallions,  accented  the  hue  of  her  eyes,  and 
looked  deliciously  cool  that  glaring  desert  day.  Her 
parasol,  of  pongee,  was  lined  with  the  same  baby  hue. 
Her  dainty  fairness  and  childish  affability  should  have 
made  an  oasis  in  that  strenuous  day,  but  Rickard's  dis 
integration  of  temper  was  too  complete.  He  rose  stiffly 
to  meet  her,  and  his  manner  demanded  her  errand. 

She  told  it  to  him,  plaintively.  It  was  getting  so  hot ! 
Her  kitchen  was  a  veritable  Turkish  bath  these  days. 
At  noon,  it  was  terrific.  Her  eyes  were  appealing,  in 
fantile. 

"It's  not  shelves."     MacLean's  grin  sobered. 

Would  it  be  too  much  to  ask,  would  Mr.  Rickard 
mind  in  the  least,  he  must  be  perfectly  frank  and  tell  her 
if  they  would  be  in  the  way  at  all,  but  while  this  hot  spell 
lasted,  could  they,  the  three  of  them,  eat  in  the  mess-tent 
with  the  men  ? 

"Surely!"  Rickard  met  it  heartily.  She  would  find 
it  rough,  but  if  she  could  stand  it,  yes,  he  thought  it  a 
good  idea.  His  eagerness  suggested  relief  to  one  listener. 
The  Hardins'  meals  had  been  a  severe  drain  on  that  office. 
The  new  arrangement  offered  a  cessation  of  petty  prob 
lems. 

Her  point  so  easily  gained,  she  knew  she  must  go.    She 


258  THE   RIVER 

acknowledged  interrupting  business,  but  there  was  one 
thing  more.  Would  Mr.  Rickard  tell  her  how  to  trace 
a  lost  bundle  ?  If  she  were  at  home,  of  course,  she  would 
not  have  to  ask  any  one,  but  here,  so  far  away  from 
express  offices!  A  package  had  been  sent  to  her  from 
Chicago,  it  must  be  months  ago.  It  reached  the  towns 
shortly  after  she  left.  She  had  written  casually  there  to 
forward  it;  it  had  not  yet  come.  She  really  did  not 
know  how  to  begin. 

"Make  a  note  of  that,  MacLean,"  Rickard  volunteered. 
He  was  still  standing.  "He'll  send  a  tracer  out  after  it, 
Mrs.  Hardin." 

And  then  there  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  go.  Her 
retreat  was  graceful,  without  haste,  dignified.  There 
was  a  womanly  suggestion  of  business  decorum.  She 
smiled  a  farewell  at  MacLean,  who  was  watching  the 
approach  of  Innes  Hardin  and  Estrada.  The  neglected 
smile  passed  on  to  Rickard,  accented.  He  did  not  see 
the  aborted  entrance  of  Hardin's  sister  and  the  young 
Mexican.  He  was  itching  to  be  at  his  work. 

He  let  out  a  growl  when  Mrs.  Hardin  was  out  of  ear 
shot. 

"What  in  thunder  did  she  want  all  those  shelves  for? 
And  cupboards  and  a  cooling  closet?  Every  week  since 
she  came,  she  had  to  have  a  carpenter,  and  I  couldn't 
refuse;  you  know  what  they'd  think,  that  I  was  trying 
to  show  my  power.  Shucks!  What  in  Halifax  do 
women  come  to  a  place  like  this  for  ?  There's  Hardin — 
brings  in  two  women  to  cook  for  him,  and  now,  please 
may  they  all  eat  with  the  men  ?" 

His  secretary  subdued  a  chuckle.  He  was  visualizing 
a  procession  of  boxes  of  choice  Havanas — from  Bode- 


THE   WHITE    OLEANDER  259 

feldt,  Hamlin  and  the  rest  of  the  gang.  He  need  not 
buy  a  smoke  for  a  year. 

"Must  think  this  is  a  summer  resort!" 

Rickard  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "Take  this 
letter,  MacLean.  To  Marshall."  Then  his  worry  di 
verted  him.  "Who  in  thunder  is  selling  liquor  to  my 
Indians?" 

"Just  that  way  ?"  quizzed  MacLean. 

"Hold  on;  that  letter  can  wait.  You  get  the  horses 
up,  MacLean,  and  we'll  ride  down  to  Maldonado's.  He'll 
have  to  get  busy,  and  clear  up  this  thing,  or  I'll  know 
why.  I'll  threaten  to  report  him  for  laziness.  It's  his 
place  to  stop  this  liquor  business,  not  mine." 

A  few  hours  later,  they  were  approaching  the  adobe 
walls  of  Maldonado.  They  found  the  gate  locked.  A 
woman,  whose  beauty  had  faded  into  a  tragic  whisper, 
a  ghastly  twilight  of  suggestion,  came  to  their  knock, 
and  unbarred  the  gate  for  the  white  strangers.  She  left 
them  by  the  white  oleander  whose  trunk  was  like  that  of 
a  tree.  MacLean  sniffed  like  a  young  terrier.  "What's 
the  matter  with  the  place  ?" 

Mystery  hung  over  the  enclosure  like  a  pall.  Their 
voices  fell  inevitably  to  a  whisper.  Once,  it  had  been  a 
garden;  now,  only  the  oleander  defied  the  desert.  Dry 
ditches  told  the  story  of  decadence.  Once,  the  river  had 
wandered  by,  a  stone's  throw  away.  Maldonado  had 
turned  some  of  its  flow  into  his  adobe  court.  But  the 
river  channel  was  dry,  and  a  dead  vine  clung  to  the  house 
walls ;  fell,  shrinking  in  the  breeze,  from  the  roof. 

The  woman  came  out  to  say  that  Maldonado  would 
follow  in  "un  momenta."  To  Rickard  she  looked  like 
the  dried  vine  quivering  from  the  wind.  She  asked  the 


26o  THE   RIVER 

senors  would  they  sit?  The  house  was  not  fit;  she  was 
cleaning. 

Maldonado,  his  face  creased  from  his  nap,  came  out, 
but  not  in  "un  momenta."  He  had  been  busy — "some 
wretched  fellows!"  Rickard  knew  the  man  was  lying. 
He  had  been  asleep.  The  woman  had  interrupted  his 
siesta.  His  eyes  were  almost  .lost ;  he  blinked ;  he  said 
it  was  the  sun.  The  day  was  so  hot.  Dios  mio,  why 
did  she  stand  there  and  not  take  pity  on  the  senors,  dying 
of  thirst  as  they  must  be.  A  glass  of  water.  It  was  his 
shame  that  he  might  not  offer  them  wine — but  he  was  a 
poor  man — with  wife  and  children.  His  eyes  shifted 
from  Rickard  to  MacLean. 

The  woman  quivered  away  from  the  group.  She  dis 
appeared  in  the  house. 

"Glasses,"  called  Maldonado  after  her. 

Her  "Si"  sounded  like  a  hiss. 

Rickard  told  his  errand.  Maldonado  sputtered  and 
swore.  By  the  mother  of  Mary  the  Virgin,  that  thing 
would  be  stopped.  It  would  be  looked  into,  the  rascal 
would  be  caught.  He  pulled  back  his  cotton  coat,  mussed 
with  sleep  as  was  his  face.  He  showed  to  the  senors, 
with  pride,  his  badge.  He  was  a  rurale ;  he  was  there  to 
uphold  the  law.  If  the  senors  would  but  follow  him, 
they  would  see  that  he  did  not  sleep  at  his  post.  He  had 
caught  some  of  those  drunken  Indians  on  the  road.  He 
had  brought  them  here. 

They  followed  him  around  the  house,  through  the 
wrecked  garden.  Maldonado  shrugged  at  the  stumps  as 
they  passed,  ruins  that  had  once  been  roses.  MacLean 
felt  his  mouth  pucker  with  repulsion  as  he  watched  the 
figure  in  striped  cotton,  the  eyes  lost  in  their  sleepy  folds 
of  flesh,  the  cruel  evil  mouth.  He  was  drawing  from 


THE   WHITE   OLEANDER  261 

the  pocket  of  his  cotton  pantaloons  a  bunch  of  iron  keys, 
tied  with  a  dirty  string.  They  were  approaching  a  shed, 
a  cattle  shed,  it  appeared  to  the  guests.  Maldonado  un 
locked  a  gate  of  bars. 

"Would  the  senors  look  in  there?" 

On  a  bed  of  old  straw,  three  inert  figures  sprawled; 
theirs  complete  oblivion. 

Maldonado,  kicked  one  of  the  figures  with  his  feet. 
"Drunken  swine."  He  locked  the  door  with  majesty. 
He  had  proved  his  services,  his  ruraleship. 

"But  where  do  they  get  it?"  demanded  Rickard,  turn- 
ing  back  into  the  sunshine. 

"Certainly,"  the  man  evaded,  "there  is  an  'oasis'  some 
where.  Perhaps,  the  sefior  remembers,  I  told  him  be 
fore,  back  in  the  sand-hills,  'somewhere.' J: 

"Why  don't  you  find  it?" 

Maldonado  was  going  to  find  it,  surely!  The  sefior 
must  have  patience.  His  hands  were  so  full.  He  remem 
bered  the  bunch  of  iron  keys  that  he  dropped  in  his 
pocket.  Every  action  of  the  man  was  surreptitious, 
Rickard  was  noting.  Maldonado  would  stand  watching! 
"I'm  doing  my  duty,  sefior." 

"If  you  are  so  busy,  Sefior  Maldonado,"  suggested 
Rickard,  "I  can  help  you.  I'll  send  down  a  few  men  to 
help  search.  How  many  would  you  like?" 

He  expected  a  minute's  hesitation,  but  there  was  none 
Oh,  it  was  not  necessary.  Later,  maybe,  he  would  call 
on  sefior  but  it  chanced  that  next  week,  or  the  next,  a 
squad  of  rurales  was  to  be  there  for  that  very  purpose 
sent  for  by  Maldonado.  Oh,  he  was  awake  to  his  duty ! 
The  sefior  would  be  satisfied.  There  would  be  no  more 
drunken  Indians. 

"Slick,"  thought  Rickard. 


262  THE   RIVER 

The  woman  was  waiting  by  the  oleander  with  glasses. 
She  filled  them  from  an  olla  hanging  in  the  shade  of  the 
tree.  It  was  cold  as  if  iced. 

Rickard  saw  her  shrink  every  time  she  had  to  pass  Mal- 
donado.  Obviously,  the  fellow  was  a  brute.  She  was 
aware  of  his  displeasure.  She  winced  at  a  word  from 
him. 

Both  men  were  glad  to  go.  Rickard  left  a  piece  of 
silver  in  the  woman's  hand.  He  hoped  Maldonado  had 
not  observed  him. 

They  were  riding  away  when  a  cry  broke  the  stillness 
of  the  air.  "Hark,  what  was  that?"  MacLean  turned  a 
shocked  face  toward  Rickard.  "A  woman?" 

It  was  anguished,  strangled  almost  at  birth.  The  men 
waited,  but  there  was  silence  in  the  patio. 

"He  got  that  money  all  right,"  speculated  Rickard. 

"Struck  her!" 

"Or  kicked  her.    That  fellow  is  a  brute." 

"Aren't  you  going  back?" 

"Going  back?  What  would  we  get  for  our  pains? 
Make  it  all  the  worse  for  the  woman.  You  noticed  he 
called  her  his  wife?  The  rurales  are  not  supposed  to 
marry.  It's  their  unwritten  law.  But  if  she  is,  do  you 
know  what  that  means?  She's  his  goods,  his  chattel; 
his  horse,  his  ox,  his  anything.  You're  not  in  the  states. 
We  can't  do  anything." 

There  is  perhaps  no  more  absorbing  topic  than  "wife" 
to  the  man  who  has  not  yet  acquired  one.  Rickard  and 
MacLean  let  an  unrecorded  silence  fall  between  them. 
The  word  had  sent  them  both  traveling  down  secret 
trails.  MacLean  was  thinking  of  the  girl  he  intended  to 
marry,  when  he  was  grown,  of  a  girl  with  yellow  eyes; 
Rickard  of  a  mistake  he  had  once  nearly  made.  His  wife, 


THE   WHITE   OLEANDER  '263 

if  ever  he  had  one,  must  be  steadier  than  that ;  she  must 
not  carry  her  sex  like  a  gay  flag  to  the  breeze.  His  in 
stinct  of  flight,  distaste  had  justified  itself  at  camp.  She 
was  a  light  little  woman.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little 
sorry  for  Hardin ! 

"I'll  race  you  into  camp,  MacLean !" 

Their  horses,  released,  sprang  toward  the  Heading. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A  WHITE  WOMAN  AND  A  BROWN 

FOR  a  few  weeks,  Mrs.  Hardin  found  the  mess-tent 
diverting.  Before  the  Delta  had  expanded  the  ca 
pacity  of  the  camp,  her  soft  nook  had  been  overtaxed, 
her  hospitality  strained.  The  men  of  the  Reclamation 
Service,  thrown  into  temporary  inactivity,  were  eager  to 
accept  the  opportunity  created  for  another.  Failing  that 
other,  her  zeal  had  flagged.  Events  were  moving  quickly 
at  the  break;  Rickard  was  absorbed.  Mrs.  Hardin  told 
herself  that  it  was  the  heat  she  wished  to  escape;  not 
to  her  own  ear  did  she  whisper  that  she  was  following 
Rickard,  nor  that  the  percolator  and  chafing-dish,  her 
shelves  and  toy  kitchen  were  a  wasted  effort.  As  in 
evitably  as  a  diamond  finds  a  setting,  so  did  Gerty 
Hardin.  She  would  return  to  it  later,  gathering  luster 
from  its  suggestion  of  womanliness.  Sometime,  the 
pretty  play  would  be  resumed.  All  this  subconsciously, 
for  she  hung  a  veil  between  her  processes.  She  kept  on 
good  terms  with  herself  by  ignoring  self-confidences. 
She  would  have  called  morbidness  the  self-analysis  of 
those  who  dig  deep  into  their  psychology  for  roots  of 
motives,  who  question  each  trailing  vine. 

Rickard,  the  discovery  unfolded  slowly,  took  his  meals 
irregularly.  His  breakfast  was  gulped  down  before  the 
women  appeared;  his  dinners  where  he  found  them. 

264 


A  WHITE   WOMAN   AND   A   BROWN    265 

"No  wonder!"  reflected  Gerty  Hardin.  "Ling's  cook 
ing  is  so  bad."  Discontentedly,  she  pictured  Rickard  as 
finding  solace  in  the  Hamlin  kitchen;  reveling  in  Mrs. 
Silent's  chickens  and  eggs.  The  camp  butter  was  shock 
ing.  She  found  Ling's  large  quantities  unpalatable. 

There  came  a  butterless  epoch;  a  horrid  gap.  Ling 
did  not  manage  right.  Butterless  toast  and  broiled 
chicory!  Small  wonder  the  manager  foraged  for  his 
meals.  Somehow,  the  thought  of  Rickard  living  as  did 
Hardin  in  times  of  stress,  as  the  bird  of  the  air,  did 
not  occur  to  the  woman  who  thought  of  Rickard  as  dif 
ferent,  a  gentleman  who  required  luxury.  She  had 
created  a  man  from  her  own  imaginings ;  she  was  evolv 
ing  a  woman  to  meet  the  approbation  of  her  creation. 

A  dinner  of  pale  oily  beans,  followed  by  a  dessert 
of  prunes  swimming  in  a  pallid  sirup,  gave  her  a  morn 
ing  of  reflection.  The  Hamlin  kitchen  was  giving  her 
uneasiness.  Her  own  abilities,  unoccupied,  were  ironic. 
She  worked  out  a  mission  as  she  lay  across  her  bed  that 
hot  afternoon. 

"To  justify  my  being  here."  A  phrase  of  Innes  re 
curred  to  her;  it  became  now  her  own. 

Her  duty  became  so  clear  that  she  could  no  longer 
lie  still.  Immediately,  she  must  retrieve  her  weeks  of 
idleness ;  what  must  Rickard  think  of  her  ?  In  spite  of 
the  scorching  space  that  lay  between  her  tent  and  the 
ramada,  of  the  sun  beating  down  like  burning  hail  on  the 
glittering  sand,  she  must  dress  and  seek  out  Rickard. 

She  buttoned  herself  thoughtfully  into  a  frock  of  pale 
colored  muslin,  cream  slipping  toward  canary.  White 
was  too  glaring  on  a  red-hot  day  like  this.  Pink  was  too 
hot,  blue  too  definite.  Pity  the  lavender  dress  was  still 
a  fabric  of  dreams!  A  parasol  of  pastel  green,  and  she 


266  THE   RIVER 

looked  like  a  sprig  of  fragrant  mignonette.  The  exer 
tion  of  dressing  brought  the  perspiration  to  her  face. 
It  had  to  be  carefully  dusted  with  powder.  Strange, 
how  she  used  to  think  the  summers  of  the  desert  insup 
portable.  After  a  torrid  season  of  New  York  in  her 
toy  apartment,  that  humid  sticky  heat,  that  shut-oven 
of  smells,  this  was  to  be  borne.  Already,  the  desert 
was  improving;  for  she  herself  had  not  changed,  of 
course. 

It  was  the  ice!  She  decided  that  any  place  could  be 
endured  once  ice  is  procurable.  Even  bad  butter  is  dis 
guised  when  frozen  into  bricks.  Her  thoughts  rounded 
the  circle,  brought  her  back  to  her  grievances.  Ling 
certainly  needed  help. 

She  found  the  open  space  of  the  trapezium  swarming 
with  strange  dark  faces.  So  silent  their  coming,  she 
had  not  heard  the  arrival  of  the  tribes.  Over  by  Ling's 
coveted  mesquits  gathered  an  increasing  group  of  bucks 
with  their  pinto  ponies  which  had  carried  them  across  a 
\  country  of  glaring  distances.  She  isolated  the  Cocopahs, 
\  stately  as  bronze  statues,  their  long  hair  streaming,  or 
Wound,  mud-caked  under  brilliant  head-cloths.  Fore 
gathering  with  them  were  men  of  other  tribes ;  these 
must  be  the  Yumas  and  Deguinos,  the  men  needed  on 
the  river.  Tom  had  told  her  that  the  long-haired  tribes 
were  famous  for  their  water-craft.  These  were  the  men 
who  were  to  work  on  the  rafts,  weave  the  great  mat 
tresses.  A  squad  of  short-haired  Pimas  with  their  squaws 
and  babies  and  their  gaudy  bundles,  gaped  at  the  fair- 
haired  woman  as  she  passed.  They  were  dazed  and  dizzy 
from  their  first  long  railroad  ride.  The  central  space  was 
filling  up  with  Pimas  and  Maricopas,  Papagoes,  too; 
she  knew  them  collectively  by  their  short  hair.  These 


A   WHITE   WOMAN   AND   A   BROWN    267 

were  the  brush-cutters  to  replace  the  stampeding  peons. 
This,  then,  meant  the  beginning  of  real  activity.  Tom 
would  at  last  be  satisfied.  He  would  no  longer  sulk  and 
rage  alternately  at  the  hold-up  of  the  work. 

It  began  to  look  dramatic  to  her.  She  picked  her  way 
through  the  stolid  groups,  the  children  and  squaws  star 
ing  at  her  finery,  at  the  queer  color  of  her  hair.  The 
value  of  the  enterprise  pricked  at  her  consciousness. 
And  she  was  going  to  help  it ;  in  her  own  way,  but  that 
was  the  womanly  way !  She  wished  that  she  had  thought 
of  it  before. 

Her  bright  darting  glance  discovered  MacLean  under 
one  of  Ling's  mesquits.  He  was  poring  over  some  of 
his  own  hieroglyphs  in  his  stenographic  pad.  One  of 
her  bright  detached  smiles  reached  him.  He  followed 
her  direction,  his  mouth  puckering. 

Before  she  reached  the  ramada,  she  saw  that  another 
woman  was  there.  She  caught  an  impassioned  gesture. 
Her  only  surmise  rested  on  Innes.  The  visitor,  following 
Rickard's  eyes,  turned.  Gerty  saw  that  she  was  dark; 
she  looked  the  half-breed.  The  brown  woman  drew  back 
as  the  white  woman  entered.  Gerty  smiled  an  airy  reas 
surance.  She  herself  would  wait.  She  did  not  want  to 
be  hurried.  She  told  Rickard  that  she  had  plenty  of  time. 

"There  is  something  you  want  to  tell  me?"  Rickard's 
patience  was  courteous  but  firm.  He  would  hear  her 
errand  first.  Gerty,  remembering  MacLean's  banish 
ment  to  the  mesquits,  the  imploring  attitude  of  the 
stranger,  determined  that  she  would  not  be  sent  away. 

"Will  you  excuse  me,  sefiora?  It  will  be  only  a  min 
ute." 

She  was  to  tell  her  errand,  and  briefly !  Gerty  swept 
past  the  intruder. 


268  THE   RIVER 

i 

"Sit  down,  Mrs.  Hardin?" 

Resenting  the  inflection,  she  said  she  would  stand.  Her 
voice  was  a  little  hard,  her  eyes  were  veiled,  as  she  told 
her  mission.  Her  usual  fluency  dragged ;  she  felt  a  lack 
of  sympathy.  She  saw  Rickard  look  twice  toward  the 
Mexican ;  she  knew  she  was  not  holding  his  attention. 

Biting  her  lip,  she  acknowledged  that  Ling  was  doing 
the  best  he  could,  at  least  the  best  he  knew  how,  but  of 
course,  he  had  his  limitations.  He  needed  an  assistant; 
his  hands  were  over-full.  She  remembered  the  phrase 
in  time  to  hurl  it  to  its  place ;  she  wanted  to  justify  her 
presence  in  camp.  In  short,  she  proposed  a  commissary 
department,  herself  in  charge. 

Rickard  had  a  weak  moment.  Outside,  the  place  was 
teeming  with  Indians  to  be  enrolled  and  placed  in  camp. 
Forestier,  the  Indian  Outing  Agent,  who  had  come  in 
on  the  train  with  three  of  the  tribes,  was  waiting  in  the 
neighboring  tent.  Rickard  wanted  some  new  work 
begun  to-morrow;  there  were  but  a  few  hours  left  of 
this  day.  There  were  letters,  despatches  to  be  got  off. 

"I'd  like  to  feel  I  was  of  some  use,"  urged  Gerty  again, 
this  time  prettily,  taking  him  back  into  her  friendship 
again.  "My  heart  is  bound  up  in  this  undertaking;  if 
I'm  allowed  to  stay,  I'd  like  to  help  along.  This  is  the 
only  way  I  can,  the  woman's  way."  It  was  a  proud 
humility.  Did  not  Rickard  think  that  the  best  way,  the 
only  way?  She  knew  he  would  think  so,  indeed! 

"Aren't  you  taking  a  good  deal  on  yourself,  Mrs. 
Hardin?" 

Then  she  forgave  his  hesitation  quite,  as  it  was  of 
her  he  was  thinking.  "Not  if  it  helps."  Her  voice  was 
low  and  soft,  as  if  this  were  a  secret  between  them. 


A   WHITE   WOMAN   AND   A   BROWN    269 

"It's  not  so  easy  as  you  think."  He  could  see  For- 
estier  leave  his  tent,  glance  toward  the  ramada.  Then 
he  saw  him  join  MacLean  by  the  mesquits.  This  was 
no  time  to  argue  a  petty  question.  It  would  do  no  harm 
to  try.  "Why,  of  course,  anything  you  want,  Mrs. 
Hardin."  And,  remembering  her  former  position,  he 
added:  "The  camp's  yours  as  much  as  mine." 

A  glad  smile  rewarded  him.  She  went  out,  reluctantly. 
She  knew  the  ways  of  those  half-breeds !  She  could 
understand  a  little  Spanish,  so  she  made  her  step  drag. 
The  silence  behind  her  was  disquieting.  The  brown 
woman  with  the  wreck  of  beauty  in  her  tragic  eyes  was 
staring  after  her;  she  did  not  see  Rickard's  gesture. 

There  was  a  new  significance  in  MacLean's  absence 
from  the  ramada.  What  could  that  woman  have  to  say 
that  MacLean  must  not  hear?  She  did  not  see  the 
mewling  babes,  half  naked,  who  gaped  at  her  as  she 
passed  the  squaws.  The  stolid  groups  parted  for  her, 
and  she  moved  through,  oblivious  to  their  color  and 
charm,  to  the  historic  import  of  it  all.  For  the  first  time, 
the  weak  tenure  on  her  old  lover  came  to  her.  Not  a 
sign  had  he  yet  given  of  their  understanding,  of  the 
piquant  situation.  Themselves,  old  sweethearts,  thrown 
together  in  this  wilderness.  What  had  she  built  her 
hopes  on?  A  word  here,  a  translated  phrase,  or  mag 
nified  glance.  She  would  not  harbor  the  new  worry. 
Why,  it  would  be  all  right.  She  used  Tom's  phrase,  the 
one  she  hated,  in  solemn  unconsciousness.  Life  had 
evidently  planned  that  from  the  first.  Fate  insisted  on 
repairing  her  mad  mistake. 

At  her  tent,  letters  were  waiting  to  be  written ;  letters 
to  her  grocer  in  Los  Angeles,  one  to  Coulter,  in  Calexico. 


270  THE   RIVER 

She  was  going  to  begin  her  regime  by  serving  good 
butter — iced  butter.  No  more  oily  horror  melting  on  a 
warm  plate.  She  remembered  a  new  brand  of  olives 
put  up  in  tins;  Rickard,  she  remembered,  loved  ripe 
olives.  She  would  show  them  all  what  a  woman  with 
executive  ability  could  do. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

BETRAYAL 

T  down,  senora.    Don't  be  frightened.    We  won't 
let  him  hurt  you."     Rickard  vulgarized  his  Cas- 
tilian  to  the  reach  of  her  rude  dialect. 

Her  work-sharpened  ringers  moved  restlessly  under 
her  refe^so.  She  pulled  it  together  as  though  the  day 
were  not  scorching.  Her  eyes  questioned  his  sympathy. 
A  flash  of  desperate  courage  had  left  her  weak  and 
tremulous.  She  stood  by  the  long  pine  table  looking 
hopelessly  down  on  the  senor  whose  eyes  had  twice 
looked  kindly  at  her. 

"Sit  down/'  he  repeated,  and  motioned  to  a  chair. 

For  long  years  her  misery  had  been  silent ;  her  tongue 
could  not  tell  her  story.  She  shook  her  head.  "Take 
your  time,  take  your  time,"  counseled  the  manager.  He 
feared  a  burst  of  hysteria. 

There  was  a  sound  of  feet  outside  the  ramada.  The 
Indians,  passing  and  repassing,  brought  a  gleam  of  anger 
to  her  eyes.  She  recalled  her  wrongs ;  they  lashed  her 
into  fury.  Familiar  as  was  Rickard  with  the  peons' 
speech  in  their  own  country,  he  could  not  keep  up  with 
her  history.  Lurid  words  ran  past  his  ears.  Out  of  the 
jumble  of  abuse,  of  shame  and  misery,  he  caught  a  new 
note. 

271 


272  THE   RIVER 

"You  say  Maldonado,  himself,  sells  liquor  to  the  In 
dians?" 

"Ssh,  sefior !"  Some  one  might  hear  him !  She  looked 
over  a  terrified  shoulder.  Maldonado  had  told  her  he 
would  kill  her  if  she  ever  told — it  came  to  her,  as  a 
shock,  what  she  was  doing,  what  she  had  done.  It 
meant  ruin  for  them  all — for  the  muchachos.  That  had 
slipped  out,  the  selling  of  the  liquor.  She  could  have 
told  her  story  without  that;  she  wanted  to  deny  it.  Re 
lentlessly  Rickard  made  her  repeat  it,  acknowledge  the 
truth. 

"Ssh,  sefior,  it  has  been  so  for  many  years,  since  I 
went  there,  oh,  years  ago.  No  one  knows,  who  would 
suspect  a  rurale,  a  rurale  who  does  his  duty  ?  He  would 
kill  me—" 

"Stop  shaking.  No  one  is  listening."  Rickard  forced 
a  tone  of  brutality.  The  poor  wretch,  he  suspected,  had 
been  trained  by  the  whip;  he  threatened  to  send  for 
Maldonado. 

"No,  I  will  tell  you,  will  tell  you  everything,  sefior. 
It  is  an  easy  trick,  sefior.  No  one  would  take  the  word 
of  an  Indian  against  Maldonado,  a  rurale.  And  the 
drink  makes  the  men  crazy,  or  stupid.  Afterward,  he 
does  not  remember  where  he  got  the  tequila.  Maldonado 
whips  him,  the  Indian  does  not  know  it  is  the  same  hand, 
and  when  he  is  turned  loose,  he  would  kiss  his  feet —  Or 
perhaps,  Maldonado  sends  him  to  Ensenada — who  be 
lieves  him  when  he  swears  the  rurale  who  arrested  him 
made  him  drunk,  sefior?  Twice,  three  times,  Maldo- 
nado's  life  was  in  danger — but  the  law  made  quick  work 
of  an  Indian  who  tried  to  kill  a  rurale.  He  would  kill 
me,  sefior — would  Maldonado." 

"Go  on,"  drove  Rickard. 


BETRAYAL  273 

Her  bony  fingers  worked  restlessly.  She  was  shaking 
with  terror. 

"Is  it  known  that  he  keeps  liquors  there?"  Rickard 
saw  he  would  have  to  help  her. 

"Oh,  no,  senor.  Not  even  the  Indians.  They  come, 
by  accident.  If  they  have  no  money,  they  are  sent  on. 
If  they  have — "  Her  curving,  black-shrouded  shoul 
ders  shrugged.  "The  walls  are  thick.  They  leave  their 
money  and  their  wits  behind  them.  Sometimes,  they 
wake  a  mile  down  the  river,  under  the  willows.  They 
have  come  back  to  tell  their  wrongs  to  their  friend,  Mal- 
donado,  who  promises  to  help  them,  to  find  the  thief 
who  has  wrung  those  cotton  pockets.  It  would  make 
you  laugh,  senor,  but  if  he  finds  it  out,  he  will  kill  me." 

"What  makes  you  tell  me,  now  ?"  Rickard  hunted  for 
the  ulcer.  He  knew  there  was  a  personal  wrong.  "What 
has  Maldonado  been  doing  to  you?  Has  he  left  you?" 

The  veil  of  fear  was  torn  from  her  eyes.  The  trem 
bling  woman  was  gone,  a  vengeful  wildcat  in  her  place. 
"Left  me,  Maldonado?  Left  his  home,  where  he  traps 
the  Indian  with  one  coin  in  his  pockets?  No,  senor. 
He  brought  her  to  our  home,  there,  Lupe,  the  wife  of 
Felipe,  the  Deguino.  Felipe  had  found  a  wife  in  No- 
gales,  had  brought  her  down  to  the  river,  a  mile  below 
the  oleander.  She  found  the  desert  dull;  she  had  the 
city's  foolishness  in  her  head.  Felipe  was  gone  a  good 
deal.  Maldonado  sent  him  to  Ensenada  with  some  poor 
wretches.  Maldonado  was  never  at  home  then;  I  told 
him  not  to  fool  with  Felipe ;  the  Indian  was  dangerous ; 
he  had  hot  blood.  Maldonado  struck  me — he  kicked  me — 
he  said  I  was  jealous — and  hit  me  again."  Rickard  saw 
jealousy  in  the  unveiled  eyes  of  hate.  She  pressed  her 
hand  to  her  breast.  Her  movement  betrayed  pain; 


274  THE   RIVER 

whether  a  bruise,  or  a  deeper  hurt  to  the  heart  of  her 
he  could  not  guess. 

She  told  the  climax  simply,  her  hand  pressed  over  her 
bosom.  "Maldonado  told  me  to  get  a  big  meal — tortillas 
and  enchilades,  nictates:  I  told  him  that  it  was  for 
Felipe ;  I  could  see  a  black  plot  in  his  eyes.  He  laughed 
at  me ;  when  I  said  I  would  not  cook  for  that  treachery, 
he  cursed  me,  he  kicked  me  again."  She  threw  off  the 
reboso,  dragging  her  dress  loose.  "Don't,"  frowned 
Rickard.  He  had  seen  a  welt  across  her  shoulder — a 
screaming  line  of  pain. 

She  wound  the  reboso  around  the  dishonored  shoulder. 
"I  cooked  his  tortillas,  his  dinner!  There  was  a  big 
meal.  There  was  a  lot  of  liquor — Felipe  was  drunk ;  the 
tequila  made  him  mad,  quite  mad.  He  seemed  to  know 
something  was  wrong ;  he  fought  as  Maldonado  dragged 
him  to  the  cell,  the  senor  remembers  the  cell  ?  The  next 
day,  Maldonado  sent  for  two  rurales,  Felipe  drank  the 
pitchers  of  wine  he  put  through  the  bars,  but  there  was 
no  liquor  in  sight  when  the  rurales  came !  They  started 
the  next  day  for  Ensenada,  taking  Felipe;  that  day, 
Maldonado  brought  Lupe  home.  I  said  she  could  not 
stay  and  he  laughed  in  my  face,  sefior.  He  put  me  out 
side  the  walls.  He  thought  I  would  beg  to  be  let  in  the 
next  morning,  come  sneaking  in  like  a  dog  that  has  been 
beaten,  wash  the  faces  of  the  muchachos,  grind  the  corn 
for  the  metates,  but  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  I  beat 
that  gate  until  my  fingers  bled.  I  remembered  the  kind 
face  of  the  senor,  and  then  I  came  here.  You  will  help 
me,  senor?" 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  But  he  knew  what 
she  wanted  him  to  do! 

"Send  that  woman  away.    Make  him  send  Lupe  away. 


BETRAYAL  275 

Let  me  stay  here  until  he  is  over  his  anger.  He  is  not 
bad,  Maldonado,  when  he  is  not  angry.  Make  him  set 
Felipe  free ;  he  will  keep  that  Lupe  from  my  house,  from 
the  children." 

Rickard  shook  his  head.  "I  shall  have  to  look  into 
this  thing.  If  this  is  true,  it's  prison  for  your  husband. 
You  won't  have  to  fear  Lupe." 

"Prison,  senor  ?  For  Maldonado  ?  You  will  never  get 
him.  He  will  swear  it  is  not  so.  He  will  kill  me;  he 
will  know  that  I  have  told.  They  will  not  believe  my 
word  against  his." 

She  was  verging  toward  a  spasm  of  terror.  To  quiet 
her,  Rickard  said  that  they  would  have  other  proof.  And 
her  husband  would  have  no  more  power  to  hurt  her; 
Maldonado's  crimes  would  protect  her  from  him. 

He  could  see  the  struggle  in  her  soul;  he  knew  she 
wanted  to  say  she  had  been  lying  to  him.  It  was  not  that 
sort  of  revenge  she  wanted ;  she  wanted  her  husband. 
She  wanted  him  to  help  her  get  her  husband  back.  The 
revenge  sought  to  trap  Lupe — 

"When  he  gets  out,  he  will  kill  me,  senor." 

"Ah,  but  that  will  be  a  long  time,  senora!  And  you 
will  have  protection.  You  will  get  a  divorce —  He  is 
your  husband,  senora  ?  You  are  married  to  him  ?" 

She  screamed  at  him.  MacLean  looked  up  from  his 
note-book.  "A  divorce?"  She  was  approaching  hys 
teria.  "Si,  senor,  he  is  my  husband.  We  were  married 
in  a  church.  Never  would  I  get  a  divorce  from  my 
husband.  No,  not  Lucrezia  Maldonado." 

Rickard  back-stepped,  to  calm  her.  It  would  be  all 
right,  anyway.  She  would  be  protected.  He  would  see 
that  Maldonado  did  not  harm  her.  He  would  look  out 
for  her  and  the  children,  and  she  might  stay  here,  in 


276  THE   RIVER 

camp,  until  the  thing  was  settled.  In  the  meantime,  she 
must  rest — 

He  wanted  to  get  rid  of  her.  Maldonado  and  his  vil 
lainy  must  wait.  The  Indians  were  waiting  to  be  reg 
istered.  They  were  to  be  sent  to  their  camp,  tribe  by 
tribe.  Forestier  was  waiting  for  him.  MacLean  was 
waiting — 

"You  will  let  me  work  for  you,  senor  ?" 

"There's  always  work.  I  won't  have  to  send  my  wash 
ing  to  Yuma,  and  I  haven't  had  a  button  sewed  on  for 
months — nor  has  MacLean,  nor  Jenks — you  can  darn 
their  socks,  and  help  Ling  with  the  beds;  we  can  keep 
you  busy,  senora.  And  you  can  go  back  to  the  children 
pretty  soon." 

The  terror  was  seizing  her  again.  Before  she  could 
begin  her  pleading,  he  called  to  MacLean. 

"Ask  Ling  to  find  a  tent  for  Senora  Maldonado.  Tell 
him  to  give  her  a  good  meal." 

Her  eyes  appealed  to  Rickard  over  her  shoulder.  Her 
body  wavered  with  fatigue.  Her  eyes  were  cavernous, 
with  dark  radiating  shadows. 

"How  did  you  get  here?" 

"I  walked,  senor." 

"Walked!  You  must  be  dead.  Get  to  bed.  You'll  be 
all  right  in  the  morning."  A  twenty-mile  walk  to  escape 
the  cruelty  of  the  brute  whom  she  would  not  divorce  be 
cause  of  a  few  priest-mumbled  words !  Not  hers  the 
sacrament  of  love,  of  vows  mutually  kept,  yet  he  knew 
that  he  could  not  depend  on  her  testimony  to  convict 
that  scoundrel  down  the  river.  One  glance  from  his 
eye,  and  she  would  be  a  shivering  lump  of  fear  again. 

He  must  trap  the  rogue.  Some  Indian,  that  was  the 
plan.  He  would  ask  Coronel.  Coronel,  himself,  could 


BETRAYAL  277 

not  play  the  game;  Maldonado  would  not  sell  liquor  to 
the  white  man's  friend.  He  was  too  wily  for  that.  But 
some  buck — Coronel  would  make  the  choice.  An  Indian 
who  would  go  to  the  adobe,  pretend  intoxication;  be 
clear-headed  enough  to  betray  him.  That  infernal  place 
must  be  closed.  The  woman  had  come  in  the  nick  of 
time.  Those  tribes  were  to  be  guarded  as  restless  chil 
dren — 

He  went  out  to  meet  Forestier. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

RICKARD  MAKES  A  NEW  ENEMY  AND  A  NEW  FRIEND 

THE  coming  of  the  Indians  gave  the  impetus  the 
work  had  lacked.  Under  Jenks,  of  the  railroad 
company,  a  large  force  was  put  on  the  river ;  these,  the 
weavers  of  the  brush  mattresses  that  were  to  line  the 
river-bed.  On  the  banks  were  the  brush-cutters ;  tons  of 
willows  were  to  be  cut  to  weave  into  the  forty  miles  of 
woven  wire  cable  waiting  for  the  cross-strands.  Day 
by  day,  the  piles  of  willow  branches  grew  higher,  the 
brush-cutters  working  ahead  of  the  mattress  workers  in 
the  stream.  In  the  dense  undergrowth,  the  stolid  In 
dians,  Pimas  and  Maricopas  and  Papagoes,  struggled 
with  the  fierce  thorn  of  the  mesquit  and  the  over-power 
ing  smell  of  the  arrow-weed.  As  tough  as  the  hickory 
handles  they  wielded,  they  fought  a  clearing  through 
dense  thickets,  in  the  intense  tropic  heat. 

It  was  a  glittering  day.  A  copper  sun  rode  the  sky; 
the  desert  sand  burned  through  the  shoe  leather.  Down 
stream,  the  Brobdingnagian  arm  of  the  dredge  fell  into 
the  mud  of  the  by-pass,  dropping  its  slimy  burden  on 
the  far  bank.  Twenty-four  hours  of  sun,  and  the  mud 
bank  would  resemble  a  pile  of  rocks  that  wind  and  sun 
again  would  disintegrate  into  a  silt.  Down  the  long 
stretch  of  levee,  the  "skinners"  drove  their  mules  and 
scrapers ;  two  pile-drivers  were  setting  in  the  treacherous 

278 


A  NEW  ENEMY  AND  A  NEW  FRIEND    279 

stream  the  piles  which  were  to  anchor  the  steel-cabled 
mattresses  to  the  river-bed.  It  was  a  well-organized, 
active  scene.  Rickard,  in  his  office,  dictating  letters  and 
telegrams  to  MacLean,  Jr.,  felt  his  first  satisfaction. 
Things  were  beginning  to  show  the  result  of  months  of 
planning.  Cars  were  rushing  in  from  north  and  east; 
every  quarry  between  Los  Angeles  and  Tucson  requisi 
tioned  for  their  undertaking. 

A  shadow  fell  on  the  pine  desk.  Ling,  in  blue  ticking 
shirt  and  white  butcher  apron,  waited  for  the  "boss"  to 
look  up.  He  stood  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his 
head,  hairless  except  for  the  long  silk-tapered  queue. 

"Well,  Ling?" 

"I  go  tamale."  His  voice  was  soft  as  silk.  "I  no 
stay." 

It  was  a  thunderclap.  There  was  no  one  to  replace 
Ling,  who  was  drawing  down  the  salary  of  a  private 
secretary. 

"You  sick?"  demanded  Rickard.  Lose  Ling?  It 
would  be  more  demoralizing  to  the  camp  than  to  lose  an 
engineer. 

"Ling  no  sick." 

"Maybe  you  want  more  money?" 

"Plenty  get  money."  The  yellow  lean  fingers  spread 
wide  apart.  "Money  all  lite.  Bossee  all  lite.  No  likee 
woman.  Woman  she  stay,  Ling  go." 

"Mrs.  Hardin!"    Rickard  woke  up. 

"She  all  time  makee  trouble.  She  talkee  butter — > 
butter,  butter.  All  time.  She  clazy.  She  think  woman 
vellee  fine  cook.  She  show  Ling  cookee  plunes.  Teachee 
Ling  cookee  plunes !  I  no  stay  that  woman."  Unutter 
able  finality  in  the  leathern  face.  Rickard  and  Mac- 
Lean,  Jr.,  exchanged  glances  which  deepened  from  con- 


280  THE   RIVER 

cern  into  perplexity.  They  could  not  afford  to  lose  Ling. 
And  offend  Mrs.  Hardin,  the  camp  already  Hardinesque  ? 

Rickard  grew  placating.  "Now,  see  here,  Ling,  you 
no  understand.  Airs.  Hardin  a  nice  lady;  nice  home, 
she  like  things  first-class.  You  understand  things  first- 
class?" 

Sourly,  Ling  vouchsafed  that  he,  too,  understood 
things  first-class.  "She  say  bad  plunes.  Too  much 
water.  She  bossee  me  all  time.  Mr.  Lickard  likee  lady, 
keep  lady,  no  keep  Ling." 

Rickard  looked  at  his  watch.  He  wanted  to  be  off. 
He  had  been  promising  himself  an  afternoon  for  three 
weeks,  since  the  day  the  tribes  came  in.  He  must  start 
things  moving  at  Maldonado's.  Coronel,  who  had  come 
in  from  Yuma  yesterday,  had  told  him  of  an  Indian  who 
would  do  the  trick  for  him,  who  could  withstand  liquor, 
and  pretend  to  reel  with  it.  Already,  he  had  lost  some 
of  his  Indians.  They  might  wander  back;  the  chances 
were  good  that  they  had  been  "sent  up."  He  needed 
every  Indian.  But  more  he  needed  Ling.  He  spent 
another  half-hour  in  wheedling.  They  met  at  the  start 
ing  place.  "Ling  go  tamale." 

"Oh,  lord,"  groaned  the  manager,  capitulating.  "All 
right,  Ling.  I'll  speak  to  Mrs.  Hardin  to-morrow." 

Even  that  would  not  do.  The  two  men  made  out  that 
Mrs.  Hardin  was  to  invade  his  quarters  that  evening  and 
teach  the  outraged  Chinese  how  to  cook  prunes.  That 
insult  had  caused  the  rebellion.  "She  come,  I  go."  It 
was  a  statement,  not  a  threat.  Rickard  succumbed. 

"All  right,  Ling.  I'll  stop  it."  With  the  dignity  of 
an  oriental  prince,  Ling  pattered  out  of  the  tent.  Rick 
ard  was  puckering  his  lips  at  his  secretary.  "I'd  rather 
take  castor  oil." 


A  NEW  ENEMY  AND  A  NEW  FRIEND     281 

"Take  time!"  laughed  MacLean,  Jr. 

"I  can't  do  that,"  Rickard's  reply  was  rueful.  "I 
can't  take  chances  with  Ling.  More  Hardin  trouble,  or 
my  name's  not  Casey.  We'll  quit  for  to-day,  Junior.  If 
I'm  to  head  her  off,  I'll  have  to  be  moving  some." 

A  half-hour  later,  MacLean  saw  his  chief  leave  his 
tent.  He  was  in  fresh  linens;  and  MacLean  noticed 
that  he  had  a  pin  in  his  tie. 

"I  wouldn't  swap  places  with  him  this  minute !  She'll 
be  as  mad  as  a  wet  hen !" 

Heartily,  Rickard,  too,  was  disliking  his  errand.  But 
there  was  no  shirking  it.  Ling  must  be  appeased.  "And, 
already,  they  have  enough  reason  to  dislike  me.  And 
here  comes  this  to  make  matters  worse ! 

"It's  not  their  fault,  it's  Hardin  who's  inflaming  them 
with  his  wrongs.  Lord,  what  does  the  man  want  ?  Here 
was  his  precious  scheme  going  to  pot  for  lack  of  funds, 
and  bad  management,  and  he  goes  whining  to  Marshall 
for  help,  and  now  he's  sore  because  he  got  what  he  asked. 
He  wants  to  be  the  high-muck-a-muck ;  he  pretends  it's 
the  valley  salvation.  If  it  were  that,  he'd  be  whistling, 
instead  of  kicking." 

Mrs.  Hardin,  from  her  bed  by  her  screen  window,  saw 
him  coming.  She  slipped  into  a  semi-negligee  of  alter 
nate  rows  of  lace  and  swiss  constructed  for  such  pos 
sible  emergencies.  She  did  not  make  the  mistake  of 
smoothing  her  hair ;  her  instinct  told  her  that  the  fluffy 
disorder  bore  out  the  use  of  the  negligee.  She  was 
sewing,  in  her  ramada,  when  Rickard's  knock  sounded 
on  the  screen  door. 

Despite  his  protests,  she  started  water  boiling  in  her 
chafing-dish.  He  had  not  time  for  tea,  he  declared,  but 
she  insisted  on  making  this  call  of  a  social  nature.  She 


282  THE   RIVER 

opened  a  box  of  sugar  wafers,  her  zeal  that  of  a  child 
with  a  toy  kitchen ;  she  was  playing  doll's  house. 

Rickard  made  several  openings  for  his  errand,  but  her 
wits  sped  like  a  gopher  from  his  labored  digging.  He 
suggested  that  she  was  working  too  hard. 

"Oh,  I  love  it,"  she  declared.  "It  justifies  my  being 
here.  I  know  you  must  think  women  a  nuisance  here 
at  camp,  Mr.  Rickard.  I  like  to  do  my  little  best.  And 
Ling  needed  help.  We  get  along  pretty  well.  He  is 
crude,  of  course.  What  could  you  expect?  I've  taken 
the  liberty  of  sending  out  for  some  extra  things.  And 
that  reminds  me,  has  my  bundle  been  heard  from  ?  Isn't 
that  the  most  mysterious  thing  ?  It  left  Chicago,  why,  it 
must  be  months  ago." 

Rickard  said  that  the  missing  bundle  had  been  last 
heard  from  in  Tepic ;  by  some  stupid  mistake,  it  had  got 
into  the  hands  of  the  Mexican  officials,  "who  were  play 
ing  ball  with  it !" 

"The  mistake  came  in  having  it  sent  here;  this  is 
Mexico;  everything  gets  balled  up  the  instant  it  crosses 
the  line.  If  you'd  had  it  sent  to  Yuma  now — but  you 
were  speaking  of  orders,  camp  orders — " 

"I'm  not  going  to  trouble  you  with  that,"  cried  Gerty, 
filling  up  his  cup  with  an  aromatic  blend  of  tea  she  had 
sent  for  to  Los  Angeles.  So  far,  it  had  been  wasted  on 
the  men  of  the  Service,  boys,  most  of  them.  She  felt 
more  at  home  with  Rickard  than  ever  before.  The  quiz 
zical,  amused  glance  of  appraisement  was  gone,  replaced 
by  an  earnestness  she  misread.  She  met  his  mood  with 
womanly  dignity;  she  tutored  her  coquetries,  withheld 
her  archness.  She  remembered  a  day  when  her  flirta 
tions  had  deflected  her  whole  life;  she  no  longer  said 


A  NEW  ENEMY  AND  A  NEW  FRIEND    283 

"ruined."     One  battle  lost?     "Time  to  fight  another!" 
She  placed  a  wafer  or  two  on  his  protesting  plate. 

He  brought  up  Ling's  contrariness,  and  he  found  they 
were   discussing  the  Indians.     There  were  a  hundred 
questions  she  wanted  to  ask  about  them.     Was  it  true 
the  popular  impression  that  they  caked  their  heads  with7 
mud  to — clean  their  hair?     It  was  true?     How  dreadf  / 
ful !    She  liked  to  believe  that  it  was  some  religious  CUSH 
torn,  a  penance  of  some  kind. 

Rickard  saw  another  opening.  He  related  his  plan  of 
having  the  camp  on  the  Arizona  side  of  the  river  to  save 
duties  on  food  stuffs;  they  ate,  the  Indians,  in  Arizona, 
and  slept  in  old  Mexico :  "It  saves  the  O.  P.  a  nice  little 
sum  every  month.  It's  not  an  easy  thing  to  manage  a 
commissary,  as  you  know — " 

The  new  hole  was  dug,  but  the  gopher  was  out  of  sight. 
She  spoke  of  a  new  book  the  critics  were  praising. 

He  found  he  would  have  to  discard  diplomacy,  blurt 
out  his  message;  use  bludgeons  for  this  scampering 
agility. 

He  put  down  his  cup ;  no,  he  would  not  have  any  more. 
"Thank  you  just  the  same.  It  is  really  delicious.  I  feel 
like  a  truant,  sipping  tea  here.  I'm  forgetting  my  er 
rand."  He  stood.  She  had  never  seen  him  hampered  by 
embarrassment  before.  Her  smile  was  gently  encourag 
ing,  womanly  sweet.  She  really  admired  him,  more  than 
any  one  she  had  ever  known.  His  reserve  called  to  her 
always,  to  reach  his  ideals,  ideals  she  could  only  guess 
at.  Her  mind  grasped  at  the  concrete ;  she  believed  him 
impatient  of  external  coarseness.  She  was  always  con 
scious  of  her  dress,  her  surroundings,  her  table  when  he 
was  present. 


284  THE  RIVER 

"My  mission  is  a  little  awkward,  Mrs.  Hardin.  I  hope 
you  will  take  it  all  right,  that  you  will  not  be  offended." 

"Offended  ?"    Her  face  showed  alarm. 

"It's  about  Ling.  He's  a  queer  fellow,  they  all  are, 
you  know."  He  was  blundering  like  a  schoolboy  under 
the  growing  shadow  in  Gerty's  blue  eyes.  "They  resent 
authority,  that  is,  from  women.  He  is  a  tyrant,  Ling  is." 

'"I  think  you  are  right,  Mr.  Rickard.  He  is  an  unruly 
servant.  But  you  could  replace  him  easily." 

"Oh,  but  we  couldn't.  It's  no  easy  matter  to  get  a 
cook  while  it's  hot  like  this ;  and  a  camp  cook,  who  can 
cook  quantities,  and  yet  make  them  palatable — " 

Then  what  was  it  he  was  trying  to  say?  The  blue 
eyes  met  his  at  last  squarely,  a  glint  of  warning  in  them 
he  would  not  see. 

"I  have  to  give  in  to  him,  we  all  do;  have  to  humor 
him.  We've  spoiled  him,  I  guess." 

"Yes?"  Ah,  she  would  not  help  him.  Let  him 
flounder ! 

"He  wants  to  be  let  alone ;  he  doesn't  appreciate  your 
kind  help,  Mrs.  Hardin." 

"Oh !"  Her  eyes  were  hot  with  tears ;  angry  tears. 
She  would  not  for  the  wealth  of  that  desert  let  him  see 
her  cry.  This  was  so  different  from  what  she  had  ex 
pected.  This  was  what  he  had  come  to  say.  She  could 
not  speak,  nor  would  not.  She  sat  in  her  spoiled  doll's 
house,  all  her  pleasure  in  her  toy  dishes,  her  pretty  finery, 
ruined.  She  would  no  longer  meet  his  eyes;  mocking, 
forever,  let  them  be!  She  had  been  so  proud  of  her 
managing,  and  here  he  listens  to  the  complaints  of  a 
Chinese  cook!  Complaints  against  her,  against  Gerty 
Holmes,  the  girl  he  had  once  loved !  He  could  not  care 
if  he  could  humiliate  her  so.  She  stared  at  her  hands 


A  NEW  ENEMY  AND  A  NEW  FRIEND    285 

lying  limp  over  the  hand-whipped  negligee.  The  azure 
hue  of  the  silk  slip  beneath  had  lost  its  charm  to  her. 
It  was  the  most  vivid  moment  of  her  life.  Not  even 
when  Rickard  had  left  her,  with  his  kisses  still  warm 
on  her  lips,  had  she  felt  so  outraged.  He  was  treating 
her  as  though  she  were  a  servant — discharging  her — be 
cause  she  was  the  wife  of  Hardin.  Her  eyes  grew 
black  with  anger;  she  hated  them  both;  between  them, 
their  jealousy,  their  rivalry,  what  had  they  made  of  her 
life?  She  suddenly  realized  that  she  was  old.  If  she 
were  young,  he  would  not  flout  her  like  this.  She  re 
membered  the  woman  she  had  seen  in  his  ramada;  she 
had  heard  that  the  Mexican  was  in  camp,  employed  by 
Rickard.  Her  thoughts  were  like  swarming  hornets. 

"He's  an  ungrateful  beast,  Mrs.  Hardin,  if  he  doesn't 
appreciate  your  labors.  I'd  let  him  struggle  alone.  As 
I  say,  we've  spoiled  him. 

"He  has  been  complaining  ?"  It  was  all  she  could  say 
with  control. 

"He's  a  tyrant.  I  told  him  I  would  not  let  you  waste 
your  kindness  one  instant  longer — " 

Oh,  she  understood !  A  bitter  pleasure  to  see  him  so 
confused.  Rickard,  before  whose  superior  appraisement 
she  had  so  often  wilted!  She  would  not  help  him  out, 
never!  She  rose  when  he  paused.  He  thanked  her  for 
meeting  him  half-way,  and  her  smile  was  inscrutable. 

"So  I'm  discharged?" 

He  misunderstood  her  dignity,  as  before  he  had  mis 
construed  her  flirtations. 

Gerty  drooped  under  the  sudden  coming  of  age.  She 
knew  she  must  be  old. 

"Or  he  would  not  treat  me  so !  he  would  not  treat  me 
so!" 


286  THE   RIVER 

"You  can't  be  discharged,  if  you've  never  been  em 
ployed,  can  you?  Thank  you  once  again,  and  for  your 
tea.  It  was  delicious.  I  wish  Ling  would  give  us  tea 
like  that." 

Boorish,  all  of  it,  and  blundering!  Why  wouldn't  he 
go?  When  he  had  hurt  her  so !  had  hurt  her  so ! 

Her  hand  met  his,  but  not  her  eyes.  If  he  did  not  go 
quickly,  something  would  happen ;  he  would  see  her  cry 
ing.  The  angels  that  guard  blunderers  got  Rickard  out 
of  the  tent  without  a  suspicion  of  threatening  tears. 
She  threw  off  her  negligee  and  the  pale  blue  slip;  the 
tears  must  wait  for  that.  Then  she  flung  herself  on  her 
bed,  and  shook  it  with  the  grief  of  wounded  vanity. 

MacLean  looked  up  as  Rickard  reentered  the  office. 

"It  went  all  right,"  nodded  his  chief,  cheerful  now 
that  was  out  of  the  way.  "She  didn't  mind.  Tired  of  it 
already,  I  guess." 

MacLean  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  Funny  for  as 
keen  a  man  as  Rickard  to  be  a  dolt  about  women.  No 
woman  would  forgive  that ;  Gerty's  kind  of  women. 
Mind!  Mind  being  turned  down?  He'd  find  out  later 
what  she  thought  about  it.  That  was  his  blind  side. 
And  she'd  been  throwing  herself  at  him  ever  since  she 
came  to  the  Heading.  Everybody  had  seen  it — hold  on, 
everybody  did  not  include  Rickard,  himself.  MacLean, 
Jr.,  softly  whistled. 

That  evening,  the  chief  had  a  visitor.  The  wife  of 
Maldonado,  some  of  the  fear  pressed  out  of  her  eyes, 
brought  in  his  laundered  khakis,  socks,  darned  and 
matched ;  all  the  missing  buttons  replaced. 

"I  haven't  worn  a  matched  sock,"  he  told  her,  "for 
months.  That's  great,  senora." 

He  wanted  to  get  to  bed,  but  she  lingered.    She  wanted 


A  NEW  ENEMY  AND  A  NEW  FRIEND    287 

to  talk  to  him  about  her  troubles ;  he  had  cautioned  her 
against  talking  about  them  in  camp,  so  she  overflowed  to 
him  whenever  she  found  a  chance;  about  Maldonado, 
the  children;  Lupe.  It  was  getting  wearying;  but  he 
could  not  shove  the  poor  thing  out.  She  wanted  him  to 
say  again  that  Maldonado  could  not  harm  her.  He  re 
minded  her  of  the  solution ;  she  could  leave  him. 

"And  go  to  hell !  Oh,  no,  never  would  I  do  that.  It 
would  be  a  mortal  sin." 

Rickard  stretched.  He  had  to  be  up  early  in  the 
morning. 

"The  senor  has  been  very  kind,"  the  woman's  grati 
tude  resembled  a  faithful  dog's. 

"Oh,  it  was  nothing."  His  lids  were  drooping.  At 
five  the  next  morning! 

"The  senor,  he  is  lonely?" 

"Lonely!"  He  laughed  in  her  puzzled  face.  Great 
Scott,  he  was  dying  for  sleep!  He  did  not  catch  her 
drift. 

"The  senor,  he  is  so  kind,  and  he  is  lonely.  He  has 
no  one  to  sew  for  him,  to  mend  his  clothes,  to  keep  his 
tent.  I  am  so  grateful  to  the  senor." 

Had  she  misunderstood  his  suggestions  about  a  di 
vorce  ?  Rickard  sat  up. 

"You  are  doing  very  well  for  me.  Thank  you.  And 
now,  good  night,  senora.  I'm  up  early  in  the  morning." 

There  was  something  on  her  mind.  She  walked  to 
ward  the  entrance  of  the  tent-house,  but  turned  back. 

"I  have  a  sister,  senor,  who  would  be  good  to  you, 
mend  your  clothes,  when  I  am  gone.  The  senor  will  be 
lonely,  then,  is  it  not  so?  She  is  grown  now,  almost 
fifteen.  She  is  muy  sympatica,  can  sew,  and  can  cook — " 

vOh,  lord—"  cried  Rickard. 


288  THE   RIVER 

Her  refrain  was  insistent.  "The  sefior  is  lonely;  you 
need  a  mujer." 

"No  es  posible,"  his  answer  was  rough  to  her  savage, 
childish  kindliness. 

The  sefior  was  so  kind,  he  would  be  kind  to  her 
sister — 

"For  Dlos,  no !"  cried  Rickard. 

Senora  Maldonado  gave  a  sharp  intake  of  breath,  an 
aborted  scream.  Rickard,  too,  saw  a  man's  figure  out 
side  the  screen  door.  The  Mexican  woman  pressed  a 
frightened  hand  to  her  heart.  Of  course,  it  was  the 
vengeful  Maldonado — he  would  kill  her — 

"If  I  am  intruding,"  it  was  the  voice  of  Hardin. 

"Come  right  in,"  welcomed  Rickard.  "Get  along, 
sefiora."  The  Maldonado  slipped  out  into  the  night,  her 
hand  still  against  her  heart. 

Hardin,  a  roll  of  maps  under  his  arm,  entered  with 
a  rough  sneer  on  his  face.  A  dramatic  scene,  that,  he 
had  interrupted !  And  Rickard  who  did  not  like  to  have 
women  in  camp.  White  women! 

Rickard,  still  sleepy,  asked  him  to  sit  down. 

"Thank  you,  no.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  those 
concrete  aprons.  They  tell  me  you've  given  an  order 
not  to  have  them." 

"The  order's  from  Tucson."    Rickard  yawned  covertly. 

"A  child's  order!"  exploded  Hardin.  "Why  doesn't 
Marshall  come  and  see  for  himself?  Brush  jetties!  It 
will  never  stand !" 

"He  is  coming."  Rickard  wrinkled  the  sleep  out  of  his 
eyes.  "He  will  be  here  next  week." 

"It's  a  crime!"  Hardin  unfolded  his  map,  spread 
ing  it  over  the  table.  A  bottle  of  ink  was  upset  in  his 
eagerness.  Rickard  was  thoroughly  awake  by  the  time 


. 


A  NEW  ENEMY  AND  A  NEW  FRIEND    289 

he  had  mopped  the  purple  black  flood  with  towels  and 
blotting-paper.  Hardin  recovered  his  map,  but  slightly 
damaged.  Two  of  Rickard's  books  were  ruined. 

"See  here,"  cried  Hardin,  still  excited.  "Calculate 
that  distance.  If  this  is  a  farce,  Marshall  ought  to  say 
so."  He  pulled  a  chair  up  to  the  ink-stained  table. 
"Brush  aprons!  He's  wasting  our  time,  and  the  com 
pany's  money." 

Rickard  resigned  himself  to  a  long  argument.  It  was 
three  o'clock  when  Hardin  let  him  turn  in. 

When  he  was  getting  ready  for  bed,  he  remembered 
the  melodramatic  scene  Hardin  had  entered  upon.  He 
stared  comprehendingly  at  the  screen  door — seeing,  with 
understanding,  Hardin's  coarse  sneer — the  Maldonado, 
breathing  fast,  her  hand  over  her  heart.  "Of  course, 
he'll  think — good  lord,  these  people  will  make  me  into 
an  old  woman!  I  don't  care  what  the  whole  caboodle 
of  them  think !" 

Five  minutes  after  blowing  out  his  candle,  he  was 
deeply  sleeping. 


CHAPTER  XXX 


SMUDGE 


FROM  her  tent,  where  she  was  writing  a  letter  that 
lagged  somehow,  Innes  Hardin  had  seen  Rickard 
go  to  her  sister's  tent.  She  did  not  need  to  analyze  the 
sickness  of  sight  that  watched  the  dancing  step  ac 
knowledge  its  intention.  It  meant  wretchedness,  for 
Tom.  At  a  time  when  he  most  needed  gentleness  and 
sympathy,  rasped  as  he  was  by  his  humiliations  and  dis 
appointments — how  could  any  woman  be  so  cruel?  As 
for  Rickard,  he  was  beneath  contempt — if  it  were  true, 
Gerty's  story,  told  in  shrugs  and  dashes.  She  had  jilted 
him  for  Tom;  and  this  his  revenge?  Did  it  hang  to 
gether,  if  he  still  loved  her?  Loved  Gerty?  How  was 
it  that  those  clear-sighted,  quizzical  eyes  had  not  at 
once  penetrated  her  flimsy  evasions,  her  deviousness? 
Could  he  ever  have  cared,  or  was  the  story  a  web  of 
vanity  ?  Still  caring,  what  would  be  the  end  of  it  all  ? 

She  had  not  known  that  she  had  such  feeling  as  the 
thought  roused  in  her.  It  proved  what  the  blood  tie  is, 
this  tigerish  passion  sweeping  through  her,  as  her  eyes 
watched  that  closed  tent — it  was  love  for  Tom,  pity  for 
Tom.  Sex  honor,  why,  Gerty  did  not  know  the  meaning 
of  the  words!  Were  she  not  a  harem  woman,  a  cheap 
little  vain  thing,  she  would  not  be  flirting  in  a  time  like 
this — getting  on  the  track  with  her  coquetries. 

290 


SMUDGE  291 

She  pulled  herself  away  from  her  wire-netting  window, 
and  took  up  her  pen.  What  had  she  been  writing  about  ? 
"They  are  working  steadily  on  the  permanent  concrete 
gate,  and  pushing  the  wooden  gate  to  control  the  autumn 
floods — "  How  long  would  it  be  before  Tom  would  see 
what  every  one  else  was  seeing?  What  would  he  do 
when  he  knew?  Hating  Rickard  already,  bitter  as  he 
was — 

She  was  not  so,  biased  as  he.  She  could  see  why 
Marshall  had  had  to  reorganize,  or  Faraday,  whoever  it 
was  who  had  done  it.  Estrada  had  shown  her;  and 
MacLean.  Her  sense  of  justice  had  done  the  rest.  Rick 
ard  had  proved  his  efficiency;  the  levee,  the  camp,  the 
military  discipline  all  showed  the  general.  Whether  he 
were  anything  of  an  engineer,  time  would  tell  that.  Mac- 
Lean  thought  so,  and  Eduardo,  but  the  others  did  not, 
the  older  engineers,  hot-headed  for  Tom.  It  was  a  long 
call  he  was  making! 

Where  had  she  left  off?  "The  wooden  gate—"  her 
letter  as  wooden!  And  how  could  she  vitalize  it  with 
out  telling  the  personal  history  which  was  animating  the 
endeavor  into  drama?  Her  brother,  Mr.  Marshall,  the 
new  manager —  Suppose  Tom  were  to  come  back?  She 
must  watch  for  him — make  some  excuse  to  pull  him  in 
if  he  should  come  back  before  that  other  went —  Hate 
ful,  such  eavesdropping!  A  prisoner  to  that  man's 
gallivanting ! 

For  an  instant  she  did  not  recognize  the  figure  out 
side  Gerty's  tent.  Her  fears  saw  Tom.  She  reached  the 
screen  door  in  time  to  see  Rickard  lift  his  hat  to  a  dis 
appearing  flurry  of  ruffles. 

She  had  seen  the  ruffles,  but  she  could  not  see  the  dis 
tress  behind  that  swiftly  shut  door.  Angry  eyes  watched 


292  THE    RIVER 

Rickard's  step  swing  him  toward  Ling's  mesquits.  She 
was  still  standing,  her  brown  hands  tightly  laced,  when 
he  emerged,  and  swung  toward  his  ramada. 

How  much  later  was  it  that  he  came  out  again  into 
that  wash  of  sunlight,  followed  by  MacLean,  who  had 
his  absorbed  look  on  that  was  almost  adoration?  How 
long  had  she  been  standing  there  ?  After  they  had  gone, 
she  would  take  a  walk.  The  letter  could  wait  till  the 
morning. 

From  the  levee  that  day,  she  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
Mexican  woman  on  her  knees  by  the  river,  rubbing 
clothes  against  a  smooth  stone.  A  pile  of  tight-wrung 
socks  lay  on  the  bank.  Innes  stood  and  watched  her. 

"I  must  remember  to  speak  of  her  to  Gerty,"  she  de 
termined.  "She  probably  does  not  know  that  there  is  a 
washerwoman  in  camp." 

Then  she  speedily  forgot  about  it;  forgot  even  her 
anger  of  the  afternoon.  The  skinners  driving  their 
mules  over  the  hot  sands,  the  mattress  weavers  twisting1 
willows  through  the  steel  cables,  the  pile-drivers  pinning 
down  the  gigantic  carpet  as  it  was  woven  to  the  treach 
erous  bed  of  that  river,  the  Indians  cutting  arrow-weed, 
that  dredge-arm  swinging  low — the  diversified  panorama 
caught  her  as  it  always  did. 

It  was  so  big,  the  man-work!  Behind  the  big  fight 
lay  its  purpose.  Not  only  to  save  the  homes  of  that  far- 
reaching  valley,  but  to  make  room  for  the  homes  of  the 
future.  Always  a  thrill  in  that,  the  work  for  those  yet 
unborn ! 

Still  sleeping  that  land  was,  land  that  would  feed  a 
nation.  Stretching  north  to  the  strange  new  sea,  that 
made  this  one  with  the  age  of  fable,  reaching  over  into 
Mexico,  its  lateral  boundaries  the  distant  unreal  moun- 


SMUDGE  293 

tains,  here  was  a  magic  soil  that  piratical  rains  had  not 
filched  of  its  wonders.  Here  tired  out  men,  from  their 
tired  out  farms,  would  find  homes,  here  the  sick  would 
find  healing  in  its  breath,  safety  and  succor  in  its  spaces 
— that  dredge-arm  swinging  across  the  channel  would 
make  all  that  come  true ! 

It  was  a  week  later  before  she  remembered  to  speak 
of  the  Mexican  woman  "who  could  wash."  The  two 
women  were  on  their  way  to  their  tents  from  the  mess- 
breakfast.  Senora  Maldonado  was  leaving  MacLean's 
tent  with  a  large  bundle  of  used  clothes  held  under  her 
arm. 

"She  washes  for  the  men.  I'm  going  to  ask  her  to  do 
my  khakis  for  me.  It's  too  much  to  keep  asking  those 
busy  men  to  see  that  my  bundle  of  wash  is  sent  out  and 
brought  back." 

"More  impossible,"  she  added,  following  Gerty  into 
her  tent,  "is  it  to  do  it  myself.  It's  too  hot.  And  khakis 
are  stiff  rubbing.  Perhaps  this  woman  would  be  will 
ing  to  do  all  our  laundry?" 

Gerty  had  been  wondering  what  she  would  say  to 
Innes.  The  speech  which  needed  only  an  introduction 
was  stirred  into  the  open. 

"You  must  not,"  her  voice  trembled  with  anger,  "you 
must  not  ask  that  woman." 

Innes  was  staring  out  of  the  tent  door,  watching  the 
arm  of  the  dredge  as  it  dipped  and  rose  from  the  river. 
She  did  not  see  the  flag  of  rage  flung  in  her  sister's 
cheeks. 

"I  don't  care  at  all  how  she  mangles  them,  so  they  are 
clean,  and  /  do  not  have  to  make  them  so!"  She  in 
terpreted  the  counsel  from  experience.  She  knew  the 
fastidiousness  of  Mrs.  Hardin.  She  had  no  ruffles  to* 


294  THE   RIVER 

care  about.  "It's  a  blessed  miracle  to  find  some  one  who 
will  wash  for  you." 

"I  don't  mean  that."  Each  word  was  curt  and  icy. 
"She  is  not  to  be  spoken  to." 

The  girl  asked  her  bluntly  what  she  meant. 

"You  must  not  give  her  your  washing — must  not  speak 
to  her.  I've  not  mentioned  it  before.  I — I  hoped  it  would 
not  be  necessary.  Tom  told  me  not  to  speak  of  it." 

"Tom  told  you  not  to  speak  of  it?  Not  to  speak  of 
what?" 

Gerty  hesitated.  Her  husband,  having  relieved  him 
self  of  his  scorn,  had  made  her  see  the  necessity  for  not 
repeating  that  scene  in  Rickard's  tent.  That  did  not  pre 
vent  her  speaking  of  what  she  herself  had  seen,  what 
she  surmised.  But  Innes  must  not  speak  of  it;  their 
position  practically  depended  on  him,  now. 

Innes,  bewildered,  asked  her  what  in  the  world  she 
was  talking  about? 

"You  must  have  observed — Mr.  Rickard  ?" 

The  girl's  ear  did  not  catch  the  short  pause.  "Ob 
served  Mr.  Rickard?" 

"The  coolness  between  us.  I  scarcely  speak  to  him. 
I  don't  wish  to  speak  to  him." 

When  had  all  this  happened,  Innes  demanded  of  her 
self?  Had  she  been  asleep,  throwing  pity  from  outdated 
dreams  ? 

"I  won't  countenance  a  common  affair  like  that."  Her 
eyes,  sparkling  with  anger,  suggested  jealous  wrath  to 
Innes,  who  had  her  first  hint  of  the  story.  She  had 
learned  never  to  take  the  face  value  of  her  sister's  verbal 
coin ;  it  was  only  a  symbol  of  value ;  it  stood  for  some 
thing  else. 


SMUDGE  295 

Gerty  had  been  suffering  with  abscessed  pride,  in 
flamed  vanity.  This  was  the  first  relief ;  the  angry  venom 
spent  itself. 

The  yellow  eyes  were  on  the  dredge  bucket  as  it  swung 
across  the  channel,  but  they  did  not  register.  She  was 
angry,  outraged ;  she  did  not  know  with  whom.  With 
Gerty  for  telling  her,  with  Rickard,  with  life  that  lets 
such  things  be.  If  Gerty  would  only  stop  talking !  Why 
would  she  string  it  out,  tell  it  all  over  again  ?  She  hated 
the  hints  which  the  accented  voice  was  making.  She 
jumped  up.  "Oh,  stop  it !"  She  rushed  out  of  the  tent, 
followed  by  a  strange  bitter  smile  that  brought  age  to  the 
face  of  Gerty  Hardin. 

In  her  own  tent,  Innes  found  excuse  for  her  lack  of 
self-control.  She  did  not  like  the  color  of  scandal;  she 
hated  smudge.  Gerty  had  told  her  nothing,  only  hinted, 
hinted!  What  was  it  Tom  did  not  want  her  to  know? 
She  would  not  think  of  it.  She  would  be  glad  that  some 
thing  had  occurred  to  check  the  foolish  little  woman's 
folly.  Gerty  had  said  the  whole  camp  knew  it;  knew 
why  the  Mexican  woman  was  in  camp!  She  did  not 
trust  Gerty  in  anything  else;  why  should  she  trust  her 
in  that?  She  would  not  think  of  it. 

True  or  not,  it  was  better  for  Tom.  She  assured  her 
self  that  she  was  glad  that  something,  anything,  had 
happened  before  her  brother  learned  the  drift  of  things. 
There  was  nothing  now  to  worry  about.  She  would  for 
get  Gerry's  gossip. 

But  she  remembered  it  vividly  that  week  as  she  washed 
her  own  khakis;  as  she  bent  over  the  ironing-board  in 
Gerty's  sweltering  "kitchenette."  She  thought  of  it  as 
she  returned  Rickard's  bow  in  the  mess-tent  the  next 


296  THE   RIVER 

morning;  each  time  they  met  she  thought  of  it.  And  it 
was  in  her  mind  when  she  met  Sefiora  Maldonado  by  the 
river  one  day,  and  made  a  sudden  wide  curve  to  avoid 
having  to  speak  to  her. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

TIME  THE   UMPIRE 

A  BLAZING  sun  rode  the  heavens.  The  river  was 
low ;  its  yellow  waters  bore  the  look  of  oriental  du 
plicity.  Men  and  horses  were  being  driven  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  the  continued  low  water.  Each  day  was  now 
showing  its  progress.  The  two  ends  of  the  trestle  were 
creeping  across  the  stream  from  their  brush  aprons,  as 
though  sentient,  feeling  their  way;  watching  the  foe; 
ready  to  spring  the  trap  when  the  river  was  off  guard. 

"Things  are  humming,"  wrote  MacLean,  Jr.,  to  his 
father,  who  was  inspecting  the  survey  below  Culiacan  for 
the  new  line  on  the  west  coast.  The  focus  was  indeed 
visible.  A  few  weeks  of  work,  at  the  present  rate,  and 
the  gap  would  be  closed,  Hardin's  big  gate  in  it;  the 
by-pass  ready ;  the  trap  set  for  the  Colorado.  The  ten 
sity  of  a  last  spurt  was  in  the  air. 

It  was  inspiring  activity,  this  pitting  of  man's  cumu 
lative  skill  against  an  elemental  force.  No  Caucasian 
mind  which  did  not  tingle,  feel  the  privileged  thrill  of 
it.  To  the  stolid  native,  as  he  plodded  on  his  raft  all 
day  under  a  blazing  sky,  or  lifted  his  machete  against 
the  thorny  mesquit  or  more  insidious  arrow-weed,  this 
day  of  well-paid  toil  was  his  millennium,  the  fulfilment 
of  the  prophecy.  His  gods  had  so  spoken.  Food  for 
his  stomach,  liquor  for  his  stupefaction ;  the  white  man's 

297 


298  THE    RIVER 

money  laid  in  a  brown  hand  each  Sunday  morning  was 
what  the  great  gods  forespoke.  The  completion  of  the 
work,  the  white  man's  victory,  would  be  an  end  of  the 
fat  time.  A  dull  sense  of  this  deepened  the  natural 
stolidity  of  their  labor.  Hasten?  Why  should  they, 
and  shorten  their  day  of  opportunity?  Saturday  night, 
feasting,  dancing;  then  a  day  of  rest,  of  stupor.  To 
day  is  theirs.  The  gods  are  speaking. 

Between  the  two  camps  oscillated  Coronel,  silently 
squatting  near  the  whites,  jabbering  his  primitive  Es 
peranto  to  the  tribes.  His  friendship  with  the  white 
chiefs,  his  age  and  natural  leadership  gave  him  a  unique 
position  in  both  camps.  Forestier  consulted  him;  Rick- 
ard  referred  to  him.  He  was  too  lordly  to  work;  long 
ago,  he  had  thrown  his  fate  with  the  Cocopahs  whose 
name  was  a  synonym  for  majestic  idleness. 

"But  he's  worth  a  dozen  workers,''  Hamlin  had  once 
told  Rickard.  "Get  Coronel  on  your  side.  He's  got 
influence;  they  do  as  he  says."  Behind  that  grizzled 
mask,  Rickard  surmised  a  pride  of  authorship  in  the 
reclamation  project.  Coronel  had  known  Powell;  he 
had  crossed  the  desert  with  Estrada;  that  his  proudest 
boast.  Assiduously,  Rickard  cultivated  the  old  Indian 
who  crouched  days  through  by  the  bank  of  the  river. 

The  engineers  felt  the  whip  of  excitement.  Silent, 
up  at  the  Crossing,  at  work  on  the  great  concrete  head- 
gate,  which  would  ultimately  control  the  water  supply 
of  the  valley,  was  prodding  his  men  to  finish  before 
the  winter  storms  were  on.  His  loyalty  to  the  Hardin 
gate  did  not  admit  a  contingency  there,  but  it  was  the 
thought  which  lurked  in  every  man's  mind.  Never  a 
man  left  his  camp  in  the  morning  who  did  not  look 
toward  that  span  crawling  across  the  treacherous  stream, 


TIME   THE   UMPIRE  299 

measure  that  widened  by-pass.  Would  the  gate  stand? 
Would  pilings  driven  through  brush  mats  into  a  bed 
of  silt,  a  bottomless  pit,  hold  against  that  river,  should 
it  turn  and  lash  its  great  tail?  The  Hardin  men  hal 
loed  for  the  gate,  but  looked  each  morning  to  see  if  it 
were  still  there.  The  Reclamation  Service  men  and 
the  engineers  of  the  railroad  were  openly  skeptical ;  Sisy 
phus  outdone  at  his  own  game!  Estrada  and  Rickard 
looked  furtively  at  the  gate,  with  doubt  at  each  other. 
Uneasiness  electrified  the  air. 

Hardin,  himself,  was  repressed,  an  eager  live  wire. 
His  days  he  spent  on  the  river;  his  nights,  long  hours 
of  them,  open-eyed,  on  his  back,  watching  the  slow- 
wheeling,  star-pricked  dome  of  desert  sky.  His  was 
the  suspense  of  the  man  on  trial;  this  was  his  trial; 
Gerty,  Rickard,  the  valley,  his  judge  and  jury.  Grad 
ually,  the  peace  of  the  atom  lost  in  infinity  would  ab 
sorb  him;  toward  morning  he  would  sleep.  But  the 
first  touch  of  dawn  would  bring  him  back  to  the  situa 
tion  ;  the  sun  not  so  tender  as  the  stars !  Dishonored, — • 
he  had  to  make  good,  to  make  good  to  the  men  who 
loved  him,  to  prove  to  Gerty  who  scorned  failure — 
By  the  eternal,  he  must  prove  to  Gerty!  She  must 
give  him  respect  from  those  scornful  eyes  of  hers.  If 
ever  he  had  worked,  in  his  life,  he  must  work  for  his 
life  now!  The  gate  grew  to  be  a  symbol  with  him 
of  restored  honor,  an  obsession  of  desire.  It  must  be 
all  right! 

Rickard  was  all  over  the  place,  up  at  the  Crossing 
with  Silent  at  the  concrete  gate,  Marshall's  gate;  down 
the  levee  inspecting  the  bank  with  untiring  vigilance; 
watching  the  mat-makers  on  the  rafts  weave  their  cross- 
threads  of  willow  branches  and  steel  cable;  directing, 


300  THE   RIVER 

reporting.  "Watching  every  piece  of  rock  that's  dumped 
in  the  river,"  complained  Wooster.  "Believe  he  marks 
them  at  night  1" 

They  were  preparing  for  the  final  rush.  In  a  week 
or  two,  the  work  would  be  continuous,  night  shifts  to 
begin  when  the  rock-pouring  commenced.  Large  lamps 
were  being  suspended  across  the  channel,  acetylene 
whose  candle-power  was  that  of  an  arc  light.  Soon 
there  would  be  no  night  at  the  break.  When  the  time 
for  the  quick  coup  would  come,  the  dam  must  be  closed 
without  break  or  slip.  One  mat  was  down,  dropped 
on  the  floor  that  had  already  swallowed  two  such  gi 
gantic  mouthfuls;  covered  with  rock;  pinned  down  to 
the  slippery  bottom  with  piles.  Another  mat  was  ready 
to  drop;  rock  was  waiting  to  be  poured  over  it;  the 
deepest  place  in  the  channel  was  reduced  from  fifteen 
to  seven  feet.  Each  day  the  overpour,  anxiously  meas 
ured,  increased.  A  third  steam-shovel  had  been  added ; 
the  railroad  sent  in  several  work-trains  fully  equipped 
for  service;  attracted  by  the  excitement,  the  hoboes 
were  commencing  to  come  in,  from  New  Orleans  where 
the  sewer  system  was  finished  and  throwing  men  out 
of  work;  from  Los  Angeles,  released  by  the  completion 
of  the  San  Pedro  breakwater ;  from  San  Francisco  they 
were  turning,  the  excitement  over.  No  fat  pickings 
there! 

It  was  a  battle  of  big  numbers,  a  duel  of  great  force 
where  time  was  the  umpire.  Any  minute  hot  weather 
might  fall  on  those  snowy  peaks  up  yonder,  and  the 
released  waters,  rushing  down,  would  tear  out  the  de 
fenses  as  a  wave  breaks  over  a  child's  fort  made  of 
sand.  This  was  a  race,  and  all  knew  it.  A  regular  train 


TIME   THE   UMPIRE  301 

despatch  system  was  in  force  that  the  inrushing  cars 
might  drop  their  burden  of  rock  and  gravel  and  be  off 
after  more.  The  Dragon  was  being  fed  rude  meals,  its 
appetite  whetted  by  the  glut  of  pouring  rock. 

Tod  Marshall  came  down  from  Tucson  in  his  car. 
The  coming  of  the  Palmyra  and  Qaudia  rippled  the  • 
social  waters  at  the  Front  for  days  ahead.  Gerty 
Hardin,  to  whom  had  been  rudely  flung  days  of  leisure, 
though  she  still  hated  Rickard,  wondered  if  she  were 
not  glad  that  her  hours  were  to  be  her  own  when  the 
grand  Mrs.  Marshall  came.  For  Marshall  was  a  great 
man,  the  man  of  the  Southwest;  his  wife,  whom  she 
had  not  yet  met,  must  be  a  personage.  Gerty's  posi 
tion  as  a  helper  of  Ling's  might  have  been  misunder 
stood.  Yet  too  proud  to  tell  her  astonished  family 
that  she  wanted  to  desert  the  mess-tent,  she  shook  her 
self  from  her  injury,  and  "did  up"  all  her  lingerie 
gowns.  Mrs.  Marshall  was  not  going  to  patronize  her, 
even  if  her  husband  had  snubbed  Tom.  It  was  hot, 
ironing  in  her  tent,  the  doors  closed.  It  would  have 
hurt  her  to  acknowledge  the  importance  of  the  impend 
ing  visit. 

Everything  carried  a  sting  those  indoor  hours.  She 
was  aflame  with  hot  vanity.  Twice,  she  had  openly 
encouraged  him;  twice,  he  had  flouted  her.  That  was 
his  kind!  Men  who  prefer  Mexicans — !  She  would 
never  forgive  him,  never? 

She  followed  devious  channels  to  involve  Tom's  re 
sponsibility.  There  was  a  cabal  against  the  wife  of 
Hardin.  Working  like  a  servant!  she  called  it  neces 
sity.  Everything,  every  one  punished  her  for  that  one 
act  of  folly.  Life  had  caught  her.  She  saw  no  way, 


302  THE   RIVER 

as  she  ironed  her  mull  ruffles,  no  way  out  of  her  cage. 
Her  spirit  beat  wild  wings  against  her  bars.  If  she 
could  see  a  way  out! 

She  really  was  not  free  to  establish  an  honest  inde 
pendent  life.  Horticulturists  speak  of  the  habit  of  a 
plant.  Psychologists  take  the  long  road  and  find  a 
Mediterranean  word ;  temperament.  Gerty  was  a  vine ; 
its  habit  to  cling  for  support.  Her  tendrils  had  been 
rudely  torn,  thrown  back  at  herself;  world-winds  were 
waiting  their  chance  at  her — a  vine  is  not  a  pretty  thing 
when  it  trails  in  the  dust —  Sometimes  she  would  shiver 
over  her  ironing-board  when  she  thought  of  the  dust. 
She  knew  her  habit,  which  she,  too,  called  tempera 
ment.  Nothing  to  do  but  to  stay  with  Tom ! 

Maddening,  too,  that  Rickard  would  not  see  that  he 
had  hurt  her.  His  bow  was  just  as  friendly  as  before. 
Friendly!  Was  that  all  it  had  ever  been?  At  the 
mess-table,  she  caught  his  eyes  turning  toward,  resting 
on,  Innes  Hardin.  The  girl  herself  did  not  seem  to  no 
tice — artful,  subterranean,  such  stalking!  That  was 
why  she  had  come  running  back  to  the  Heading! 
That  the  reason  of  her  anger  when  she  had  hinted  of 
the  Maldonado.  She  learned  to  hate  Innes.  Before  the 
girl's  return,  she  had  had  a  chance;  she  knew  she  had 
had  a  chance.  He  had  been  caught  by  youth,  ah,  that 
the  truth  that  seared !  Youth !  Youth  that  need  not  fear 
the  morning  light,  the  swift  passing  months!  She  had 
no  time  to  lose.  Her  heart  felt  old. 

The  mess-meals  grew  intolerable  to  her.  She  would 
watch  for  the  shock  of  those  conscious  glances  that  she 
felt  every  one  must  see.  She,  Gerty  Hardin,  cast  aside 
for  a  hoyden  in  khakis !  The  girl's  play  at  unconscious 
ness  infuriated  her.  Deep!  Ah,  she  knew  now  her 


TIME   THE   UMPIRE  303 

game!  Riding  fifteen  miles  down  the  levee  to  pay  a 
pretended  visit  to  a  laborer's  wife,  Mrs.  Parrish!  As 
if  she  were  interested  in  Mrs.  Parrish !  Jolting  in  a  box 
car  to  see  the  concrete  head-gate  with  MacLean;  walk 
ing  with  Estrada,  meeting  Rickard,  of  course,  every 
where;  her  yellow  khakis  in  every  corner  of  the  camp. 
A  promiscuous  coquette,  she  changed  the  word  to  "care 
ful";  playing  her  cards  slowly;  waiting  for  victory  to 
make  a  hero  of  Rickard;  pretending  to  take  issue  with 
Tom — ha,  she  knew  her,  at  last ! 

Her  first  call  at  the  Palmyra  discovered  the  mistress 
in  a  wash  gown  of  obscure  cut  and  color,  with  a  white 
apron  a  serving  maid  might  wear.  Knitting  her  pale- 
colored  wools,  Mrs.  Marshall  had  little  to  give  out  but 
monosyllables.  Gerty  was  forced  to  carry  the  conversa 
tion.  Mrs.  Marshall  did  not  appear  to  see  her  visitor's 
correctness,  the  harmony  of  color,  the  good  lines.  Time 
thrown  away,  that  laundering! 

That  avenue  dull,  time  again  hung  heavily.  The  gay 
evenings  on  the  Delta  were  abandoned;  the  men  com 
ing  back  from  the  river  too  tired,  too  warm  to  dance. 
She  began  to  discover  it  was  hideously  hot.  Perhaps, 
she  might  go  out,  after  all — 

She  decided  to  tell  her  family  that  it  was  too  warm 
to  continue  the  commissary  activity ;  Rickard  was  enough 
of  a  gentleman  to  let  her  cover  her  hurt ;  she  could  safely 
assume  that!  Yet  it  stung  her  to  think  what  Innes 
might  be  thinking,  what,  perhaps,  he  had  told  her! 
Every  one  must  be  wondering,  speculating !  In  her  life, 
Gerty  had  felt  keenly  but  twice;  each  time  Rickard  it 
was  who  had  hurt  her.  That  mocking  superior  eye  of 
his !  Bitterly  she  hated  him. 

"Tom,"  she  said  one  night.    He  turned  with  a  swift 


304  THE   RIVER 

thrill  of  expectation,  for  her  voice  sounded  kind ;  like  the 
Gerty  of  old.  "I  have  always  heard  that  Mr.  Marshall 
has  terribly  strict  ideas — for  every  one  but  himself,  I 
mean !" 

"That's  a  good  one."  It  was  the  first  laugh  in  weeks 
of  moodiness.  Hardin  was  thinking  of  the  poker  games. 

"I'm  serious.  I  think  he  ought  to  hear  of  that  Mex 
ican  woman." 

"Have  you  heard  anything  else  ?" 

There  was  no  new  thread  in  her  fabric  of  suspicions. 
To  Hardin,  it  brought  a  memory  of  time  past  to  be 
sitting  thus  familiarly  together,  Gerty  in  her  negligee, 
her  hair  disarranged,  looking  up  into  his  face.  He  did 
not  suspect  he  was  a  pawn  in  her  scheme  of  retribution. 

"It  ought  not  to  be  allowed."  The  blue  eyes  were 
purpling  with  anger.  "Mr.  Marshall  ought  to  be  told. 
It  is  demoralizing  in  a  camp  like  this.  I  thought  you 
said  the  governor  of  Lower  California  had  sent  a  com 
mandant  here." 

"To  suppress  liquor-selling  and  gambling."  Hardin 
did  not  say  that  the  request  had  come  from  Rickard. 

"And  persons  without  visible  means  of  support," 
quoted  his  wife  with  triumph. 

"That  does  not  apply  to  the  Mexican,"  frowned  Har 
din.  He  did  not  want  to  be  dragged  into  this. 

"You  ought  to  tell  Mr.  Marshall,"  persisted  Gerty. 

"I  tell  Marshall  anything  against  his  pet  clerk?"  The 
Hardin  lip  shot  out.  "He'd  throw  me  out  of  the  com 
pany." 

The  pretty  scene  was  spoiled.  To  his  dismay,  she 
burst  into  a  storm  of  tears,  tears  of  self-pity.  Her  life 
lay  in  tatters  at  her  feet,  the  pretty  fabric  rent,  torn  be 
tween  the  rude  handling  of  those  two  men.  She  could 


TIME   THE   UMPIRE  305 

not  have  reasoned  out  her  injury,  made  it  convincing, 
built  out  of  dreams  as  it  was,  heartless,  scheming  dreams. 
Because  she  could  not  tell  it,  her  sobbing  was  the  more 
violent,  her  complaints  incoherent.  Tom  gathered 
enough  fragments  to  piece  the  old  story.  "Ashamed  of 
him.  He  had  dragged  her  down  into  his  humiliation." 
His  sweet  moment  had  passed. 

He  spent  a  few  futile  moments  trying  to  comfort  her. 

"Don't  come  near  me."  It  burst  from  her;  a  cry  of 
revulsion.  He  stared  at  her,  the  woman  meeting  his  eyes 
in  flushed  defiance.  The  hatred  which  he  saw,  her  bitter 
ness,  corroded  his  pride,  scorched  his  self-love.  Noth 
ing  would  kill  his  love  for  her;  he  knew  that  in  that 
blackest  of  moments.  His  affection  for  her  was  part 
of  his  life.  It  went  cringing  to  her  feet,  puppy-like,  but 
he  called  it  back,  whipped  it  to  its  place.  That  was  all 
over  now.  No  woman  could  dread  him  twice  like  that. 
He  shivered  at  what  he  had  seen.  The  man  breathed 
deep  as  he  got  up  and  looked  about  him.  It  was  over. 
He  would  not  elaborate  his  awakening  with  words.  He 
would  never  forget  that  look  of  dread,  of  hate.  He 
left  her  tent. 

That  night,  the  cot  under  the  stars  had  no  tenant. 
Hardin  had  it  out  with  himself  down  the  levee.  Strange 
that  this  bitter  man  could  have  the  same  hopeful  blood 
in  him  which  had  whipped  his  pulse  at  Lawrence!  He 
was  still  a  young  man,  and  God!  How  tired  he  was! 
He  was  in  a  net  of  bitter  circumstance.  What  was  he 
to  do,  where  to  go  ?  He  was  too  old,  too  tired  and  sore 
to  begin  over  again,  and  the  bitter  irony  of  it !  He  only 
wanted  what  he  had  lost,  the  love  of  the  woman  who 
hated  him,  the  respect  of  the  valley  into  which  his  life 
had  been  sucked.  God!  He  was  tired. 


3o6  THE   RIVER 

He  saw  the  dry  forsaken  channel  of  the  Colorado; 
grim  symbol  of  his  life !  Where  was  the  youthful  hope, 
the  conviction  that  everything  would  come  his  way  ?  The 
potential  richness  of  the  soil  upturned  by  yesterday's 
shovel  on  the  dike  found  him  cold.  That  night,  there 
was  no  future  to  his  bitterness.  Hunting  for  the  fault, 
he  found  the  real  Hardin,  not  the  man  he  had  been 
spending  his  days  with,  the  man  he  had  expected  to  be, 
but  the  man  the  world  saw  passing.  Perhaps  life  holds 
no  more  tragic  instant  than  when  we  stand  over  the 
grave  of  what  we  thought  we  were,  throw  the  sod  over 
the  ashes,  facing  the  lonely  yoking  with  the  man  that  is. 
Hardin  shivered  unto  himself;  and  grew  old. 

That  valley  might  fulfil  Estrada's  vision  and  his  labor ; 
might  yield  the  harvest  of  happy  homes ;  but  his  was  not 
there.  He  had  been  the  sacrifice. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE   WALK    HOME 

CLAUDIA  MARSHALL  sat  at  the  head  of  her 
v^/  stately  table  in  the  Palmyra,  mute  as  a  statue 
but  for  the  burning  eyes  which  followed  her  Tod.  To 
Innes,  her  guest,  she  was  renewing  the  impression  of 
heroic  resignation.  It  was  a  tragic  presence,  of  brood 
ing  solicitude. 

Not  easy  to  believe  that  this  was  once  the  most  viva 
cious  coquette  of  Guadalajara!  The  American  girl  had 
often  wondered  if  it  had  been  Tod  Marshall's  sentence, 
only,  which  had  changed  the  butterfly  into  a  gentle 
martyr.  Listening  to  her  brilliant  host,  she  let  her  mind 
wander  to  the  silent  woman  near  her.  What  was  it  she 
was  mourning,  her  position  in  San  Francisco,  the  honors 
her  Tod  had  had  to  relinquish?  Was  worldliness, 
thwarted  ambition,  her  sorrow?  Then  why  didn't  she 
enjoy  the  distinctions  he  poured  into  her  seemingly  in 
different  hands,  those  busy  fingers  knitting,  knitting, 
paying  no  attention  to  the  labels  he  won?  She  might 
have  made  a  splendid  circle,  herself  the  center,  if  that 
was  the  thing  she  loved.  Eduardo  had  told  her  once, 
in  relating  the  family  history,  that  the  instant  Tod  Mar 
shall  had  risen  in  Claudia  Cardenas'  sky,  the  coquette 
of  Guadalajara  had  left  her  old  orbit;  she  herself,  for 
ever  a  satellite,  to  this  new  sun.  But  that  could  not  have 

3°7 


3o8  THE   RIVER 

silenced  her  vivacity,  thrown  that  burning  fire  into  her 
tragic  eyes! 

"I  saw  Cor'nel  to-day,  mother!"  Innes  caught  the 
opportunity  to  glance  at  her.  She  had  her  first  intuition. 
Claudia  had  flinched !  "Mother?" 

"That's  a  character,  Miss  Innes!  Have  you  talked 
with  him  ?" 

"With  him !"  echoed  Innes.    "To  him !  Will  he  talk?" 

"Ah,  we  are  cousins,  brothers!"  chuckled  her  host. 
And  then  her  discovery  intrigued  her;  she  could  hear 
the  words  of  Tod  Marshall;  he  was  telling  anecdotes 
of  the  old  Indian ;  faintly,  she  heard  him — "As  a  fly  to 
molasses,  is  Cor'nel  to  the  river;"  but  her  subterranean 
thought  was  with  the  woman  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
Childlessness !  Of  course.  How  was  it  that  she  had  never 
sensed  it  before!  That  her  sentence,  her  renunciation. 
And  he  calls  her  "mother !" 

A  phase  of  Marshall's  caught  her.  "A  Yuma,  Cor' 
nel?  I  always  thought  him  a  Cocopah." 

Marshall's  fine  head  was  thrown  back  in  laughter. 
"Too  much  work,  Yuma!"  He  was  mimicking  the  old 
Indian's  laconic  brevities.  "Marry  Cocopah.  Go  live 
Cocopah.  No  work,  Cocopah !" 

Mrs.  Marshall,  it  struck  Innes,  was  hastening  the 
dinner.  She  overheard  her  sending  back  a  course.  "It's 
too  much,  Tony !"  And  as  the  coffee  was  being  passed, 
she  could  not  wait  longer  to  open  her  work-bag  which 
she  had  carried  to  the  table.  Her  steel  needles  began  to 
"put  in"  the  sleeve  of  an  infant  sack ;  white  soft  worsted, 
with  a  scallop  of  blue  wool.  The  work  did  not  absorb 
her  attention.  Seemingly,  she  was  engrossed  in  her  Tod. 
Though  her  fingers  never  faltered,  her  gaze  followed 
him.  Tragically  centered  it  was  to  Innes  Hardin ;  her 


THE    WALK   HOME  309 

discovery  accenting  that  sad  stare  which  had  the  per 
sistence  of  polar  attraction.  He  was  her  universe,  of 
apprehension,  rather  than  her  joy.  And  the  girl,  watch 
ing,  found  a  pitiful  thought ;  he  was  also  her  limitation ; 
her  fond  sentence.  Loving  him;  fearing  for  him;  hav 
ing  life  and  love  meet,  and  end  in  him ! 

No  definite  horizon,  in  truth,  here,  save  as  her  husband 
made,  or  rose  above  it.  The  world,  as  related  to  him 
only,  came  to  Claudia  in  her  Tucson  hotel,  or  her  box 
rooms  in  the  Palmyra.  Her  other  interest,  the  orphan 
age  of  Santa  Rosalia  at  Tucson;  for  whose  babies  she 
cut  and  sewed  and  sent  an  interminable  procession  of 
tiny  garments. 

Priestly  counsel  had  turned  her  to  vicarious  mother 
hood.  The  priests,  never  her  Tod,  had  heard  her  com 
plaints  of  her  abridged  life.  The  blow  that  had  sent 
Tod  Marshall  to  the  desert,  had  forbade  her  motherhood 
She  was  overflowing  with  maternal  passion.  And  thu 
doctors  and  priests  told  her  that  resignation,  consecra 
tion,  life  in  a  minor  key,  soft  pedal  pressed,  was  the 
price  she  must  pay  for  her  few  happy  months  of  wife- 
hood.  Into  her  eyes  had  come  the  look  that  Innes  had 
found  tantalizing;  the  gaze  of  fervent  abridgment. 

She  had  never  grown  to  feel  at  ease  with  her  hus 
band's  countrywomen;  and  they  could  not  understand 
her  gulf  of  silence.  The  nearest  approach  to  a  woman 
friendship  was  with  Innes  Hardin,  and  this,  without  a 
bridge  of  speech.  There  had  been  many  terrible  hours 
before  the  orphans'  call  had  been  heard.  Then,  those 
her  Tod  did  not  fill,  she  learned  to  crochet  into  soft 
baby-smelling  jackets  for  the  Santa  Rosalia  babies.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  she  might  be  brave  enough  to  approach 
Tod  with  her  plea;  perhaps  he  might  let  her  take  one 


310  THE   RIVER 

of  those  helpless  darlings.  To  do  that,  she  must  lay  bare 
her  ache  to  him — not  yet  had  she  found  the  daring. 
Until  then,  the  Santa  Rosalia  Orphanage !  Her  room  at 
the  Resales  Hotel  was  lined  with  work-boxes  and  knitting 
bags  filled  with  tender  rainbow  wools.  Unsewn  slips 
lay  in  snowy  piles  waiting  for  Tod's  days  of  absence. 
They  needed  her  undivided  attention;  he  liked  to  see 
her  listening  to  him.  She  had  learned  to  crochet  with 
her  eyes  shut  that  she  might  work  without  distracting 
him.  The  balls  of  wool  lost  their  baby  fragrance  in  the 
fumes  of  his  tobacco;  that  the  one  dissipation  she  did 
not  protest  against.  Late  hours,  excitement,  might 
abridge  the  life  she  so  passionately  policed;  but  she 
would  not  demand  the  sacrifice  of  his  cigar.  The  babies 
must  have  their  sacques;  so  lavender  sticks  and  sachet 
bags  made  a  fumigating  compromise. 

Claudia  could  not  lessen  her  sorrow  by  sharing  it. 
Only  by  a  flash  of  intuition  could  Innes  have  penetrated 
her  secret.  Divined,  it  chained  her  sympathy.  Her 
look  listening  to  Tod  Marshall,  her  memory  gathered 
pitiful  evidence  of  the  renunciation.  Dull,  never  to  have 
felt  it  before! 

Marshall's  cigar  followed  the  coffee.  Tony,  the  white- 
capped  Italian  cook  of  the  Palmyra,  was  removing  the 
cups.  Innes  was  carrying  her  double  interest,  listening 
to  Tod  Marshall's  broad  sweep,  getting  a  new  view 
point  as  he  minimized  the  local  scheme — feeling  that  si 
lent  presence  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

Then  something  drove  Claudia  from  her  mind.  What 
Mr.  Marshall  had  said  swept  a  disturbing  calcium  on 
Tom.  What  if,  truly,  the  river  fiasco  could  be  traced  to 
that  overzealous  hand?  To  Tom,  this  undertaking 
blotted  out  the  rest  of  related  big  endeavor ;  but  that 


THE   WALK   HOME  311 

was  not  the  way  her  host  was  looking  at  it.  He  was 
too  courteous  to  give  her  discomfort;  he  had  not  said 
it  directly.  But  always  it  met  her,  rose  up  to  smite  her, 
wherever  she  was.  "If  this  is  a  failure,  then  it's  hell 
to  pay  at  Laguna."  That  the  reason  of  the  importance 
of  this  section ;  as  it  affected  other  enterprise,  as  it  was 
related  to  irrigation  in  the  lump.  Not  because  it  was 
Tom,  who  had  started  it,  the  general  who  had  conceived 
it — Marshall,  who  with  his  railroad  was  carrying  it 
through.  Not  for  personal  reasons;  as  a  block  of  the 
great  western  activity  to  fit  into  its  place  in  the  mosaic. 
More  and  more  disturbing,  her  thoughts  of  Tom ! 

Can  a  man  change  equipment,  method,  his  entire  habit 
of  life,  in  a  five-minute  walk  from  home  to  office?  She 
had  to  meet  a  question  of  her  host.  Yes,  she  had  heard 
of  Minodoka.  Yes,  it  was  a  big  undertaking.  She  saw 
him  well  started  toward  the  Salt  River  country  before 
she  went  back  to  meet  her  fear.  Was  it  not  egotism, 
personal  pride,  that  was  making  her  cover  her  eyes,  like 
any  simple  ostrich?  Her  brother.  Assume  him  any 
body  else's  brother!  Grant  a  man  a  moment  of  ap 
parent  distinction  given  him  by  a  distinguishing  enter 
prise.  That  moment  of  distinction  his  betrayal,  unless 
the  method  of  the  man  is  big  enough  to  rise  equal  to  it ! 

Big  issues  had  never  found  this  man,  her  host,  want 
ing.  He  had  pulled  opportunity  from  a  denying  fate; 
he  had  made  big  issues.  It  gave  her  a  strange  sinking 
of  the  heart  as  she  put  him  in  her  brother's  place ;  the 
river  then  would  not  be  running  into  a  useless  sea ! 
Because  he  had  the  trick  of  success ;  his  big  opportunities 
did  not  betray  him!  Ah,  now  she  had  touched  the 
thought.  It  paled  her  pride  in  being  a  fervid  Hardin. 
There  was  a  looseness  in  the  method.  The  dredge  fiasco 


3i2  THE   RIVER 

— the  wild  night  at  the  levee — no  isolated  accidents  those. 
Hardin's  luck! 

A  flush  of  miserable  shame  came  to  her.  How  they 
had  all  been  trying  to  spare  her — Eduardo,  these  kindly 
Marshalls — MacLean!  She  loved  Tom  just  the  same, 
just  as  fondly,  perhaps  more  tenderly,  even;  for  the 
limitations  of  his  upbringing,  his  education,  he  was  not 
to  blame!  It  did  not  justify  Gerty's  resentments — that 
was  a  personal  feeling,  a  craving  for  distinction;  hers, 
a  wistful  shame  that  Tom,  not  being  equal  to  his  oppor 
tunity,  must  drag  it  down  with  him,  cancel  forever 
that  vision !  It  must  not  be  a  failure — it  must  succeed ! 
She  was  turning,  impulsively,  to  ask  Tod  Marshall  if 
he  thought,  could  he  think  it  probable  that  they  would 
fail,  when  a  step  that  sent  the  blood  to  her  face  took  the 
car's  stairs  at  two  leaps.  Now,  indeed,  the  dinner  was 
spoiled. 

"That's  Rickard,"  Marshall  came  back  from  Salt 
River.  "I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  I  asked  him  to  dinner. 
He  couldn't  get  away.  He  said  he'd  run  in  for  coffee. 
Hello,  Rickard.  Thought  you'd  forgotten  us!" 

"More  coffee,  Tony,"  ordered  Mrs.  Marshall,  after 
she  had  greeted  her  guest.  "A  cup  for  Mr.  Rickard." 

She  hadn't  thought  of  that  contingency!  She  found 
herself  shaking  hands  with  him.  Could  he  not  hear  her 
mind,  ticking  away  at  the  Maldonado  episode? 

Of  course,  he  would  insist  on  seeing  her  to  her  tent. 
Punctilious,  always.  Well,  she  just  wouldn't.  She 
didn't  know  how  to  prevent  it,  but  she  just  wouldn't! 
Perhaps,  she  could  slip  out,  some  way.  She  would  watch 
her  chance.  She  would  ask  Mrs.  Marshall — that  was  it, 
ask  to  be  shown — anything.  Then  she  would  slip  away. 

Mrs.    Marshall's    needles    were   clicking.     Her   eyes 


THE   WALK   HOME  313 

were  on  her  Tod's  face,  watching  for  the  first  sign  of 
fatigue.  Tony  carried  in  liqueurs.  Rickard  allowed 
his  glass  to  be  filled,  but  Innes  noted  that  he  did  not 
touch  it.  She  remembered  that  he  had  not  refused  it 
at  her  sister's  dinner.  She  was  in  a  mood  to  carp. 

"No  spirits,  either?"  She  thought  she  detected  a 
mockery  akin  to  hers  in  Marshall's  tone. 

"Can  I  do  what  I  won't  let  my  men  do,  sir?" 

"Not  smoking  yet,  I  see !" 

"I  think  I've  learned  to  dislike  it,  for  myself — " 
added  Rickard.  "Can  I  talk  shop  for  a  while?" 

They  withdrew  to  a  cushioned  window  seat.  Innes 
could  hear  bits  of  their  talk.  Rickard,  she  gathered,  was 
urging  a  warm  protest  against  a  policy  of  his  superior. 
She  caught  enough  scraps  to  piece  together  their  op 
position.  "Reclamation  Service,"  "Interference,"  "A 
clean  slate — "  and  then  "We're  handicapped  enough,"  she 
heard  Rickard  say,  and  then  caught  a  quick  glance  in 
her  direction. 

Marshall's  answer  was  judicial.  Again  Innes  got  the 
wide  view,  the  broad  sweep.  She  remembered  what 
Eduardo  Estrada  had  told  her  of  Rickard's  complica 
tions.  This  was  what  they  were  talking  of.  Marshall 
advocated  a  hospitality  to  their  ideas,  if  set ;  "Where  it 
is  possible.  'Be  soople,  Davy,  in  things  immaterial/  " 
he  twinkled.  "Remember  your  Stevenson?  Govern 
ment  men  are  a  bit  stilted,  and  we  rough  railroad  men 
can  teach  them  a  point  or  two,  I  agree  with  you,  but 
we're  looking  far  ahead,  Rickard.  And  it's  all  the  same 
thing,  Laguna,  Imperial.  If  it's  to  be  the  same  system, 
stands  to  reason  they  want  it  done  their  way,  eh  ?  Can't 
see  it?  Wait  till  you're  old  like  me." 

His  Claudia  looked  at  him  with  quick  anxiety.     He 


3 14  THE   RIVER 

was  not  old.  And  he  looked  well.  Sometimes,  she  al 
most  believed  he  was  well.  That  terrible  sword — 

Innes  had  found  her  chance.  She  asked  to  be  shown 
over  the  car.  Mrs.  Marshall  put  aside  her  wools  and 
led  the  way  through  Tony's  domain,  who  would  have 
had  them  linger.  A  large  diamond  blazing  on  his  finger 
pointed  out  ingenious  cubby-holes  and  receptacles.  He 
wanted  to  tell  the  young  lady  of  his  wonderful  luck; 
how  he  had  been  picked  up  by  Mr.  Marshall — half  dead 
in  San  Francisco — and  brought  down  to  the  Southwest. 
He  had  not  coughed  for  a  month.  He  tried  to  tell  her 
of  his  brilliant  salary,  "one  hundred  and  fifty,  Mex.," 
but  his  mistress  abridged  his  confidences. 

"Tony  would  talk  all  night,"  she  explained  as  she 
led  the  way  back  through  the  sitting-room  to  her  sleep 
ing  compartment. 

Here  Innes  confided  her  plan.  She  wanted  to  slip  out. 
"She  would  not  interrupt  their  evening;  Mr.  Marshall 
had  business  to  discuss — " 

Mrs.  Marshall  would  not  hear  of  it.  She  felt  that 
Tod's  evening  had  been  long  enough ;  that  he  should  be 
in  bed  after  his  long  day  of  observation  on  the  river. 
But  she  said  that  Mr.  Marshall  would  never  forgive 
her  if  she  let  Miss  Hardin  go  home  alone.  Her  op 
position  was  softly  implacable. 

Innes  went  back  to  the  sitting-room  of  the  car  angrily 
coerced.  Rickard  was  still  closeted,  conversationally, 
with  his  superior. 

She  endured  a  half-hour  of  crippled  conversation. 
She,  herself,  was  not  easily  vocal.  She  felt  that  Mrs. 
Marshall  liked  her  in  her  own  silent  remote  way,  but 
they  needed  Tod  Marshall  to  bridge  over  the  national 
gap.  Swift  fraternization,  as  between  socially  equipped 


THE   WALK   HOME  315 

women,  was  not  possible  with  them.  She  tried  many 
subjects.  There  were  no  points  of  contact,  she  told  her 
self. 

At  last,  desperately,  she  rose  to  go.  Of  course,  he 
must  insist  upon  going  with  her.  Of  course ! 

"I  was  going  back  early,  anyway.  I'm  to  be  up  at 
dawn  to-morrow." 

The  good-bys  were  said.  She  found  herself  walking 
rebelliously  by  his  side.  "No,  thank  you!"  to  the  offer 
of  his  arm. 

The  night  was  bright  with  stars.  "Bright  as  day, 
isn't  it?"  Because  her  voice  was  curt,  and  she  had  not 
used  his  name,  the  rising  inflection  helped  a  little !  Hate 
ful,  to  stumble  over  a  rut  in  the  road!  Of  course,  he'd 
make  her  take  his  arm !  Of  course ! 

Rickard  grasped  her  elbow.  She  walked  along,  her 
head  high,  her  cheeks  flaming,  anger  surging  through  her 
at  his  touch. 

Stupid  to  press  this  companionship,  this  awkward 
silence  on  her.  If  he  thought  she  was  going  to  enter 
tain  him,  as  Gerty  did,  with  her  swift  chatter,  he'd  be 
surprised!  Any  other  two  people  would  fall  into  easy 
give-and-take,  but  what  could  she,  Innes  Hardin,  find  to 
chatter  about  with  this  man  stalking  along,  grimly  grasp 
ing  her  arm?  Close  as  they  were,  his  touch  reminding 
her  every  minute,  between  them  walked  her  brother  and 
her  brother's  wife — and  there  was  the  Mexican — hate 
ful  memory!  Of  course,  she  could  not  be  casual.  And 
she  would  not  force  it.  He  had  brought  this  about. 
Let  him  talk,  then ! 

Oppressive  that  silence.  Then  it  came  to  her  that  she 
would  ask  him  the  question  that  his  coming  had  aborted. 
A  glance  at  his  face  found  him  smiling.  He  found  it 


3i6  THE   RIVER 

amusing?  Not  for  worlds,  then,  would  she  speak.  And 
they  stalked  along.  Unconsciously,  she  had  pulled  her 
self  away  from  him.  He  took  her  hand,  and  put  it  in 
the  crotch  of  his  arm.  'That's  better,"  he  said.  She 
wondered  if  he  were  still  smiling. 

Their  path  led  by  his  tent.  Neither  of  them  noticed 
a  subdued  light  through  the  canvas  walls.  As  they 
reached  the  place,  a  figure  darted  from  the  door. 

"Oh,  senor,  I  thought  you  would  never  come."  It 
was  the  wife  of  Maldonado.  Her  expression  was  lost 
on  Innes.  The  face  was  quivering  with  terror. 

"Mr.  Rickard,"  Innes'  words  like  icicles,  "I  will  leave 
you  here.  It  is  quite  unnecessary  to  come  farther." 
Quite  unveiled  her  meaning! 

It  came  so  quickly  that  he  was  not  ready ;  nor  indeed 
had  Gerty's  innuendos  yet  reached  him.  But  the  situa 
tion  was  uncomfortable.  He  turned  sharply  to  the  Mex 
ican.  "What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  hour?" 

"Oh,  senor,"  she  gasped.  "It  is  the  worst.  The  senor 
said  I  was  not  to  go  home ;  and  I  tried,  Dios  mio,  how 
I  tried  to  obey.  But  the  children,  little  Rosita,  not  yet 
four?  How  could  I  know  that  that  woman  fed  them, 
or  combed  their  hair?  I  crept  in,  just  to  see — and  Dios 
mio!"  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Come  in,"  he  took  her  roughly  by  the  arm.  She 
would  wake  up  the  camp  with  her  crying.  He  put  her 
in  a  chair.  "Now  tell  your  story."  The  woman  had  got 
to  be  a  nuisance.  He  couldn't  have  her  coming  around 
like  this.  He  had  seen  that  look  in  the  girl's  eyes — 
the  Mexican's  rocking  grief  was  theatric.  He  wouldn't 
have  her  coming  around.  It  didn't  look  right — "Mur 
dered?  Who  did  you  say  was  murdered?" 


THE   WALK   HOME  317 

She  lifted  a  face,  frightened  into  haggardness.  "Mal- 
donado  and  the  girl." 

The  night  was  stripped  to  the  tragedy.  "You  found 
them?" 

Her  face  was  lifted  imploringly  to  his.  "The  senor 
knew  best.  I  should  never  have  gone.  Will  they  come 
after  me?  Will  they  come  and  take  me?'*  Her  terror 
was  physical.  Her  teeth  were  chattering.  She  was  ex 
hausted  from  running.  She  had  stumbled,  blindly,  the 
distance  between  the  camp  and  her  home.  "Oh,  senor,  it 
was  not  I.  By  the  Mother  of  Christ,  it  was  not  I." 

Rickard  was  not  sure.  Her  fear  made  him  suspect 
her.  "Who  was  it,  you  think?" 

"Felipe,"  she  gasped. 

"But  they  took  him  to  Ensenada,  you  said;"  Rick 
ard  was  inclined  to  think  the  murderer  was  before  him. 

"No,  senor.  He  got  away  from  the  rurales — he  came 
back.  He  went  home — there  was  no  one  there.  Some 
one  told  him  where  she  had  gone.  He  came  to  Mal- 
donado's.  Lucrezia,  the  eldest,  opened  the  gate.  He  was 
terrible,  she  said.  He  rushed  past  her.  And  when  he 
came  out,  his  hands  were  red.  The  children  heard  cries. 
They  were  afraid  to  go  in.  I  got  there  last  night.  I 
went  in.  They  were  not  quite  cold — I  was  afraid  to 
stay.  It  would  look  like  me,  senor.  I  made  the  children 
stay  behind.  They  could  not  run  so  fast." 

"How  do  you  know  it  was  Felipe?"  sternly  asked 
Rickard. 

"A  long  scar,  senor,  from  here  to  here,"  she  motioned 
from  lip  to  ear.  "Lucrezia  had  seen  him.  Will  they 
take  me,  senor  ?"  She  was  a  wreck  of  terror. 

"Not  if  what  you  tell  me  is  true.  Now,  get  to  bed. 
I'll  give  you  something  that  will  make  you  sleep." 


3i8  THE   RIVER 

"But  the  children?" 

"Nothing  can  be  done  to-night.  Drink  this."  He 
was  not  sure  yet  that  she  was  telling  him  the  truth.  "I'll 
send  MacLean  down  in  the  morning."  He  hustled  her 
out  of  the  tent. 

He  wondered  as  he  got  into  bed  as  to  the  truth  of  her 
story.  Disgusting,  such  animal  terror!  Awkward  hole, 
that.  Fate  seemed  possessed  to  queer  him  with  those 
Hardins ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

A  DISCOVERY 

"  I  "*HE  murder  of  Maldonado  shook  the  camp  next 
A  morning.  The  wife  had  run  from  Rickard's  tent 
to  Mrs.  Dowker,  who  had  put  the  hysterical  creature  to 
bed.  All  night,  she  babbled  of  her  horror.  There  had 
been  no  sleep  at  the  Dowkers' ;  the  boy  woke  up  shriek 
ing  with  fright  at  the  strange  sobbing.  Dowker  spoke 
of  it  at  the  mess-tent  at  breakfast;  an  hour  later,  Rick- 
ard  met  the  story  there.  He  wondered  if  it  had  yet 
reached  Hardin's  sister.  He  decided  to  send  MacLean 
down  to  the  house  of  the  oleander  to  get  at  the  facts. 

'He  was  rushing  MacLean  through  the  morning's  dic 
tation,  when  three  rurales,  in  brilliant  trappings,  rodei 
up  to  his  ramada.    They  looked  like  stage  soldiers,  small  u 
and  pompous  in  their  spectacular  uniforms  and  gold-  I 
laced  hats.     The  leader,  entering  the  office,  announced  1 
that  they  were  on  the  track  of  a  criminal,  the  murderer 
of  a  rurale,  Maldonado.     The  crime  had  occurred  two 
nights  ago,  down  the  river.    The  senor  knew  the  place. 
There  was  a  famous  oleander — 

"Do  you  know  who  it  was  ?"  Rickard  felt  sure  of  the 
answer.  He  himself  thought  that  the  murderer  lay  sleep 
ing  in  Mrs.  Dowker's  tent. 

The  spokesman  of  the  party,  of  fierce  mustaches,  and 
glittering  bullion,  surprised  him.  "An  Indian,  named 

319 


320  THE   RIVER 

Felipe."  He  repeated  tHe  story  Rickard  had  heard  be 
fore.  Felipe  had  escaped  his  guards,  the  companions 
of  the  speaker.  They  had  followed  him,  tracked  him  to 
his  home;  then,  conclusively  on  to  the  adobe  of  the 
oleander  where  Maldonado  and  the  woman  were  found 
— butchered.  It  was  quite  clear.  He  had  left  a  stupid 
trail  behind  him  of  noisy  threats,  revenge — 

"Maldonado's  girl  herself  opened  the  door  for  him; 
she  saw  him  run  out.  Oh,  he  will  be  shot  for  this.  Mal 
donado  was  a  good  officer." 

Rickard  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  question  the  adjec 
tive.  The  evil  place  would  be  closed;  the  commandant 
would  see  to  that.  He  asked  about  the  dead  man's  chil 
dren,  if  they  were  still  at  the  adobe — 

"An  Indian  woman,  their  only  neighbor,  is  with  them. 
They  will  be  cared  for.  Would  the  sefior  give  his  re 
spected  permission  for  notices  to  be  posted  about  the 
camp?  A  description  of  the  Indian,  a  reward  for  his 
capture ;  the  favor  would  be  inestimable." 

Rickard  took  the  placard,  written  in  fairly  correct 
English  and  Spanish.  The  government  of  Mexico  was 
calling  its  people  to  capture  "One  Felipe,  Indian,  belong 
ing  to  the  tribe  of  Cocopahs.  His  skin  dark  to  black 
ness,  with  high  cheek-bones,  and  an  old  fading  scar, 
bluish,  which  runs  from  mouth  to  ear.  Five  feet,  eight 
inches  tall,  with  black  hair  reaching  below  his  shoul 
ders.  One  hundred  dollars  reward  for  his  arrest,  or  ap 
prehension.  When  last  seen,  he  was  wearing  blue  cot 
ton  trousers,  a  faded  cotton  shirt.  The  fugitive  speaks 
Spanish,  a  little  broken  English  and  several  Indian  dia 
lects." 

The  two  solemn  rurales  stood  at  attention  as  the  re- 
splendant  officer  repeated  his  convictions. 


A   DISCOVERY  321 

"He  is  somewhere  in  the  river-bed,  otherwise  we 
would  have  found  him.  The  thick  undergrowth  shelters 
him,  senor.  He  is  skulking  somewhere  between  Ham- 
lin's  and  Maldonado's.  He  has  had  a  start  of  twenty- 
four  to  thirty-six  hours,  maybe  more,  but  then — our 
horses,  senor!  If  we  may  be  allowed  to  post  these  no 
tices,  we  will  then  push  up  to  Hamlin's  Crossing.  A 
posse  is  scouring  the  country  around  Maldonado's.  He 
will  not  escape." 

Rickard  gave  the  card  back  to  the  pompous  little  offi 
cer  whose  sword  and  spurs  clanked  as  he  bowed  over 
it.  He  thanked  the  senor  eternally  for  his  attention  and 
courtesy.  He  saluted  again,  wheeled,  marching  out  of 
the  ramada,  with  his  stage-soldiers. 

Rickard  saw  the  notice  later  that  day.  It  was  nailed 
to  the  back  platform  of  the  Palmyra.  He  was  on 
Marshall's  trail,  his  chief  having  failed  to  keep  an  ap 
pointment  with  him.  They  were  to  test  the  gate  that 
afternoon ;  Marshall  was  returning  soon  to  Tucson. 

Rickard  found  Claudia  in  the  darkened  car  reading 
a  note  from  her  husband.  With  a  rising  inflection  that 
did  not  escape  him,  she  told  her  visitor  that  her  hus 
band  had  been  called  to  Yuma  on  business. 

"Oh,  that's  so,"  cooperated  Rickard,  concealing  his 
amusement  at  Marshall's  truancy.  "I'd  forgotten  about 
that  business."  Claudia  Marshall  had  reason  for  her 
anxiety.  But  not  for  wifely  worry  would  he  mention 
that  forgotten  appointment  at  the  river ! 

"He  may  be  kept  late,  he  says."  Rickard  was  con 
scious  that  she  was  watching  his  face.  "He  says  not  to 
wait  up.  That  means  late  hours.  Oh,  Tod  ought  not! 
Every  time,  his  cough  comes  back — "  He  had  caught 
her  off  guard.  Her  fears  were  a  crucifixion. 


322  THE   RIVER 

In  Tucson,  Rickard  had  heard  a  dwarfing  version  of 
over-solicitude.  Since  he  had  been  with  them  at  the 
river,  the  thing  smacked  to  him  of  tragedy.  He  had 
seen  the  gentle  rogue  slip  that  wistful  bridle  before.  Her 
eyes,  to  him,  looked  robbed.  Why  should  she  not  grudge 
each  unnatural  night,  insist  on  life  at  her  terms  instead 
of  the  full-blooded  recklessness  of  his? 

He  left  the  car  musing  on  marital  ironies.  Daring  ad 
venture  to  throw  together  a  team  of  unmatched  natures, 
gambling  on  exteriors — as  teams  are  chosen.  Without 
a  driver,  he  followed  his  thought  whimsically,  what  team 
left  so  to  itself  would  not  smash  its  harness?  Terrible 
plunge,  that!  What  can  two  people,  neighbors  even, 
know  of  congeniality,  that  mutual  delight  which  must 
survive  the  nagging  friction  of  every-day  life?  Harder 
for  a  man  to  know  the  nature  of  the  woman  he  picks 
out,  than  for  the  girl.  She  has  his  work  as  a  guide ; 
she  can  guess  at  temperament  and  taste.  What  guide 
has  a  man  in  the  choice  of  the  home-bred  girl,  the  only 
sort  he  himself  could  imagine  being  willing  to  pin  his 
faith  to?  Modern  life,  the  home,  shelters  the  woman; 
she  has  no  profession  to  betray  her  taste  or  disposition. 
In  a  place  like  this,  it's  different.  Camp  life  shows  up 
the  real  man  or  woman.  A  good  preliminary  course, 
that,  in  matrimony,  love-sick  couples,  made  to  work  out 
a  probation  in  a  rough  camp,  the  woman  to  cook,  the 
man  to  hunt  for  grub  and  fire-wood !  Fewer  marriages, 
perhaps,  but  then  not  so  many  divorces. 

A  group  of  Indian  children  were  playing  under  a 
clump  of  willows,  directing  a  mimic  stream  through  a 
canal  of  their  own  making.  Even  the  children  were  play 
ing  the  river  game!  He  stopped  to  watch  their  mim 
icry.  A  pool  of  deserted  water  lay  caught  in  a  depres- 


A   DISCOVERY  323 

sion.    The  little  brown  hands  had  raised  a  labored  levee, 
had  scooped  out  the  return  canal. 

"Hold  on/'  cried  Rickard.  An  engineering  problem 
had  stopped  their  game.  The  stream,  returning,  threat 
ened  to  overwhelm  their  breastworks.  "Do  it  this  way." 
The  miniature  of  a  stolid  bronze  buck  looked  up  uncom- 
prehendingly.  Rickard  tried  Spanish.  The  children 
shook  their  heads.  He  got  down  on  his  knees,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  straightened  out  the  rebellious  river. 
Many  a  year  since  he  had  played  with  kids !  The  little 
faces  looking  up  at  him,  the  confidence,  stirred  quiescent 
longings.  He  was  no  longer  what  one  would  call  a 
young  man.  He  was  living  so  hurriedly  that  he  was 
allowing  life  in  its  great,  sweet  solemn  meaning  to  pass 
him  by.  It  was  always  manana  with  him,  or  pa-sada 
nianana.  And  he  was  getting  along ! 

Stretching  the  kinks  in  his  legs,  he  continued  his  walk. 
He  would  take  a  look  at  the  levee  while  he  was  there. 
The  youngsters'  problem  recurred  to  him.     He  had  had 
a  new  thought  back  there.    He  pulled  a  note-book  from 
his  pocket,  scrawling  as  he  went.     An  idea  pulled  him  \ 
stock-still.     Why  not,  he  asked  himself  with  some  ex-  \ 
citement?      Custom    says    borrow-pits    on    the    outside.    \ 
What  was  the  origin  of  that  custom? 

"Is  not  our  problem  different?"  he  demanded.  "A  | 
dike  is  placed  usually  to  protect  immediately  usable  land. 
Not  so,  here.  Well,  then,  why?"  The  borrow-pit  must 
be  a  menace  on  the  stream  side,  must  expose  fallible  soft 
ness  to  floods — queer  he  hadn't  thought  of  that  before. 
He  must  think  that  well  over  before  he  made  a  change, 
but  it  certainly  did  look  reasonable  to  him. 

He  hailed  Parrish,  down  the  levee  a  distance.  Par- 
rish  was  the  foreman  of  that  section  of  levee,  in  charge 


324  THE    RIVER 

of  a  big  gang  of  Indians  and  hoboes.  He  came  up 
running. 

"Go  slowly  here,"  advised  his  chief.  "I  may  change 
the  orders.  Going  to  open  up  muck  ditches  this  after 
noon  ?" 

Parrish  thought  that  they  might,  late. 

"Wait  to  see  me.  Come  up  to  camp  this  evening. 
I'll  go  over  it  by  myself  first.  I'll  talk  it  over  with  you." 

Parrish  asked  hesitatingly  would  the  next  night  do  as 
well?  He  had  promised  Mrs.  Parrish  to  go  to  Yuma 
to  fetch  some  medicines  she  needed.  She  wasn't  well, 
but  if  it  was  pressing — 

"Surely,  go,"  agreed  Rickard.  "But  you  will  be  pass 
ing  the  camp.  Lay  off  early  to-night,  and  start  in  time 
to  have  a  talk  with  me  before  going  to  Yuma.  Here,, 
this  is  what  I'm  figuring  on."  He  wanted  to  try  it  or. 
the  practical  mind,  unbiased  by  conventions.  He  drew 
his  idea  again,  elaborating  the  suggestion  of  inside  bor- 
row-pits. 

"I  don't  see  why  it  isn't  right,"  frowned  Parrish, 
whose  ideas  grew  slowly. 

"I  believe  it  is  right.  But  I'll  go  over  it  carefully  at 
the  office.  Drop  in  early.  I'll  give  you  your  orders  for 
to-morrow." 

Rickard  turned  back  toward  camp,  deep  in  his  thought ; 
so  intent  that  a  sharp  cry  had  lost  its  echo  before  the 
import  came  to  him.  He  stopped,  hearing  running  steps 
behind  him.  Innes  Hardin  was  loping-  up  the  bank  like 
a  young  deer,  with  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"Mr.  Rickard,"  she  cried,  "Mr.  Rickard !" 

She  was  trembling.  Her  fright  had  flushed  her; 
cheek  to  brow  was  glowing  with  startled  blood.  He 
saw  an  odd  flash  of  startling  beauty,  the  veil  of  tan  torn 


A   DISCOVERY  325 

off  by  her  emotion.  The  wave  of  her  terror  caught  him. 
He  put  out  his  hand  to  steady  her.  She  stood  recover 
ing  herself,  regaining  her  spent  breath.  Rickard  remem 
bered  that  this  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  since 
the  murder  of  Maldonado,  since  the  meeting  with  the 
Mexican  woman  at  his  tent.  "What  was  it  frightened 
you?" 

"The  Indian,  the  murderer.  Just  as  they  describe 
him  on  those  notices,  the  high  cheek-bones,  the  scar,  a 
terrible  gaunt  face.  I  must  have  fallen  asleep.  I'd 
been  reading.  I  heard  a  noise  in  the  brush,  and  there 
was  his  face  staring  at  me.  Foolish  how  frightened  I 
was."  Her  breath  was  still  uneven.  "I  screamed  and 
ran.  Silly  to  be  so  scared." 

He  started  toward  the  willows,  but  she  grabbe'd  his 
sleeve.  "Oh,  don't."  She  flushed,  thinking  to  meet  the, 
quizzical  smile,  but  his  eyes  were  grave.  He,  too,  had 
had  his  fright.  They  stood  staring  at  each  other.  "I'm 
afraid — "  she  completed.  How  he  would  despise  her 
cowardice!  But  she  could  not  let  him  know  that  her 
fear  had  been  for  him! 

He  was  looking  at  her.  Suppose  anything  had  hap 
pened  to  her !  He  had  a  minute  of  nausea.  If  that  brute 
had  hurt  her — and  then  he  knew  how  it  was  with  him ! 

He  looked  at  her  gravely.  Of  course.  He  had  known 
it  a  long  time.  It  was  true.  She  was  going  to  belong 
to  him.  If  that  brute  had  hurt  her! 

She  shrank  under  his  gravity;  this  was  something 
she  did  not  understand.  They  were  silent,  walking  to 
ward  the  encampment.  Rickard  did  not  care  to  talk. 
It  was  not  the  time;  and  he  had  been  badly  shaken. 
Innes  was  tremulously  conscious  of  the  palpitating  si 
lence.  She,  fluttered  toward  giddy  speech.  Her  walk 


326  THE    RIVER 

that  day,  Mr.  Rickard!  She  had  heard  that  water  had 
started  to  flow  down  the  old  river-bed;  she  had  wanted 
to  see  it,  and  there  was  no  one  to  go  with  her.  Her 
sentence  broke  off.  The  look  he  had  turned  on  her  was 
so  dominant,  so  tender.  Amused  at  her  giddiness,  and 
yet  loving  her!  Loving  her!  They  were  silent  again. 

"You  won't  go  off  alone,  again."  He  had  not  asked 
it,  at  parting.  His  inflection  demanding  it  of  her,  was 
of  ownership.  She  did  not  meet  his  eyes. 

Later,  when  she  was  lying  on  her  bed,  face  downward, 
routed,  she  tried  to  analyze  that  possessive  challenge 
of  his  gaze,  but  it  eluded  words.  She  summoned  her 
pride,  but  the  meaning  called  her,  sense  and  mind  and 
soul  of  her.  It  cried  to  her:  "I,  Casey  Rickard,  whom 
your  brother  hates,  once  the  lover  of  Gerty  Holmes,  I 
am  the  mate  for  you.  And  I'm  going  to  come  and  take 
you  some  day.  Some  day,  when  I  have  time !" 

Oh,  yes,  she  was  angry  with  him ;  she  had  some  pride. 
"Why  didn't  he  tell  me  then?"  she  cried  in  a  warm 
tumult  to  her  pillow.  "For  I  would  have  given  him  his 
answer.  I  had  time,  ample  time,  to  tell  him  that  it  was 
not  true."  For  she  wanted  a  different  sort  of  lover,  not 
a  second-hand  discard ;  but  one  who  belonged  all  to  her 
self  ;  one  who  would  woo,  not  take  her  with  that  strange 
sure  look  of  his.  "You'll  be  waiting  when  I  come." 
Ah,  she  would  not,  indeed!  She  would  show  him! 

And  then  she  lay  quite  still  with  her  hand  over  her 
heart.  She  would  be  waiting  when  he  came  for  her! 
Because,  though  life  had  brought  them  together  so 
roughly,  so  tactlessly  had  muddled  things,  yet  she  knew. 
She  would  be  waiting  for  him ! 

Before  he  had  left  her,  Rickard  had  followed  a  swift 
impulse.  Those  bronze  lamps  averted  still?  Was  she 


A   DISCOVERY  327 

remembering — last  night?  No  mistake  like  that  should 
rest  between  them.  He  must  set  that  straight.  That 
much  he  allowed  himself.  Until  his  work  was  done. 
But  she  knew — she  had  seen — how  it  was  with  him ! 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  help  me,  Miss  Hardin  ?  Would 
you  do  something  for  that  poor  crazed  woman?  I 
wanted  to  ask  Mrs.  Hardin,  but  for  some  reason  I've 
got  into  her  black  books.  The  Mexican  needs  help, — 
she  ran  away  from  her  children,  she  thought  the  suspi 
cion  would  fall  on  her — I  suppose  we  must  not  blame 
her  for  cowardice.  Just  the  little  kindness  one  woman 
can  give  another.  A  man  finds  it  difficult.  And  these 
Mexican  women  don't  understand  a  man's  friendship." 

Her  eyes  met  his  squarely.  His  tantalizing  smile  had 
gone.  He  was  making  a  demand  of  her — to  believe 
him,  his  request  his  defense.  The  glances,  of  yellow 
eyes  and  gray,  met  with  a  shock,  and  the  world  was 
changed  for  both.  Life,  with  its  many  glad  voices,  was 
calling  to  senses  and  spirit,  the  girl's  still  rebellious,  the 
man's  sure. 

It  was  the  serene  hour  of  the  day.  The  work  of  the 
day  was  done,  save  Ling's  and  the  river  shifts'.  The 
wonderful  slow  evening  of  the  desert  was  unfolding.  Be 
yond,  the  distant  deep-shadowed  mountains,  which  shut 
them  out  from  the  world,  made  a  jagged  rent  across  the 
sky. 

Rickard  pulled  himself  free  from  the  solemnity  of  that 
moment.  They  were  to  be  friends — first!  He  sought 
her  eyes.  Good!  They  were  not  to  be  enemies  any 
more! 

He  put  out  his  hand.  "Good  night!"  To  both,  it 
carried  the  sound  of  "I  love  you !"  She  put  her  hand 
in  his,  then  tore  her  fingers  away,  furious  with  them 


328  THE   RIVER 

for  clinging.  Where  was  her  pride?  When  he  had 
time! 

She  fled  into  her  tent,  his  look  from  which  all  laughter 
had  faded,  following  her. 

Neither  of  them  had  seen  Gerty  Hardin  watching 
them  from  her  tent  door. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE   FACE    IN    THE   WILLOWS 

THAT  evening,  in  her  tent  by  the  river-bed,  Mrs. 
Parrish  thought  that  she  heard  a  noise  outside.  She 
had  been  lying  down,  a  wet  cloth  pressed  over  her  eyes 
which  would  twitch  in  spite  of  desperate  effort.  She 
had  sent  Sam  to  Yuma  for  ammonia  and  headache  pow 
ders,  and  for  valerian ;  the  last  for  her  nerves. 

It  was  only  the  wind  rustling  the  river  willows,  but  it 
startled  her  every  time.  She  wished  that  she  had  not 
let  him  go.  The  headache,  the  twitching,  was  easier  to 
stand  than  loneliness.  She  kept  her  nerves  on  edge 
listening  for  noises.  That  noise  again!  Some  one  was 
surely  prowling  about  the  tent.  She  raised  her  head, 
straining  her  ears.  There  was  no  sound  without.  She 
was  unstrung.  All  that  excitement  about  the  murder  of 
Maldonado  had  made  her  scary.  There,  what  was  that  ? 

She  tore  the  wet  rag  from  her  eyes  and  jumped  up. 
A  face  haggard  and  wild  was  staring  at  her  through 
the  screen-wire  door.  The  twilight  was  lingering;  the 
long  warm  dusk  of  the  desert.  She  could  see  that  it  was 
an  Indian,  and  her  blood  froze ;  for  a  purple  scar  twisted 
his  face. 

She  had  seen  the  rurales  nail  a  notice  on  the  tool 
house  down  the  river  that  very  morning.  She  had 
braved  the  fierce  noon  sun  to  read  it.  The  description 

329 


330  THE    RIVER 

was  burned  in  red  letters  on  her  memory.  "High  cheek 
bones,  long  streaming  hair.  Faded  cotton  shirt,  a  scar 
from  mouth  to  ear !" 

"Bread,"  the  voice  grated  on  her.  "Dame  el  pan, 
senora.  Love  of  Gord,  bread,  senora.  P/-why.  La-hum- 
pah." 

Her  flesh  chilling,  she  was  backing  cautiously  toward 
the  table.  He  must  not  guess  what  she  was  seeking. 

She  found  it  difficult  to  enunciate.  Her  tongue  was 
thick.  "You  understand  camp?  Indian  Camp?"  He 
shook  his  head.  She  was  still  backing,  retreating  to 
ward  her  revolver.  "Camp,"  she  insisted.  "Indians 
have  bread,  mucho.  Go  there.  Get  bread,  mucho, 
there." 

"Bread,"  he  pleaded.    "Bread,  senora.    Hambreando!" 

Starving!  She  knew  what  that  meant.  Then  he  was 
dangerous.  To  save  herself,  she  would  give  him  bread, 
but  she  was  afraid  to  open  the  door.  Every  Indian 
tragedy  she  had  ever  read  shook  her  then  with  terror. 
She  was  groping  blindly,  her  hand  behind  her,  over  the 
crowded  surface  of  the  table.  She  struck  against  the 
cold  steel  butt  of  the  gun.  Her  fingers  curled  around  it. 

"Go  away,"  she  repeated.  "Man  come  pretty  soon." 
He  would  know  what  that  meant.  She  lifted  her  re 
volver,  and  the  face  left  the  door. 

She  dared  not  now  have  a  light.  Her  heart  was  burst 
ing.  If  it  would  not  pound  so!  She  must  quiet  it,  so 
she  could  breathe,  so  she  could  shoot.  How  could  she 
be  calm?  She  was  thinking  of  the  things  the  Indians 
do  to  people,  to  people  who  have  not  harmed  them;  of 
scalping,  of  tortures.  Sam  said  these  Indians  were 
gentle;  but  he  had  said  her  tent  would  not  blow  down. 
He  would  not  deceive  her.  He  did  not  know.  This 


THE   FACE    IN   THE   WILLOWS          331 

man  had  killed  two  innocent  people.  Perhaps  they  had 
refused  to  give  him  bread. 

How  badly  Sam  would  feel  that  he  had  left  her; 
things  always  happened  when  he  was  away.  But  she 
had  urged  him;  she  could  not  stand  the  pain  another 
night.  The  night!  It  stretched  before  her,  a  long  tor 
ture  of  fear. 

She  caught  a  sound  at  the  rear  of  the  tent.  That  light 
screen  door,  held  only  by  a  thin  hook !  Any  child  could 
break  that  down.  Why  had  she  let  Sam  go?  He  was 
scarcely  on  his  way.  Two  hours  to  get  there,  if  he  was 
lucky  and  his  horse  not  too  tired.  An  hour  to  rouse  the 
drug  clerk,  and  get  the  drugs — two  hours  back.  God! 
she  would  go  mad ! 

She  strained  her  ears  to  listen,  the  silence  of  the  desert 
falling  like  lead  on  her  ear-drum.  There  was  that 
stealthy  step  again,  moving  around  the  tent !  She  would 
have  to  do  something.  She  must  give  him  bread  if  he 
was  starving.  Hunger  makes  men  desperate.  He  had 
been  in  hiding  for  two  days,  she  had  heard  the  rurales 
tell  Sam.  Perhaps  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  that  time 
— she  shivered  at  the  picture  she  conjured  of  the  dead 
man  and  woman.  She  wondered  why  he  had  killed 
them?  Just  because  he  was  starving,  because  they  re 
fused  to  give  him  bread?  She  wondered  if  he  had  tor 
tured  them,  scalped  them?  When  he  came  into  her 
vision  again,  well  in  front  of  the  tent,  she  would  hurl 
a  loaf  out  the  back  door,  and  hook  it  before  he  could 
get  back  there.  Perhaps  he  would  go  away,  if  she  gave 
him  something  to  eat. 

The  voice  came  whining  through  her  door  again. 

"Bread,  senora,  bread,  senora !" 

Her  gun  in  one  hand,  firmly  clenched,  she  groped  in 


332  THE   RIVER 

a  starch  box  with  her  left  for  the  bread.  Then,  swift  as 
a  shot,  she  opened  the  rear  door  and  threw  the  soggy 
loaf  of  her  own  making  into  the  gathering  shadows. 

"There,  bread!"  she  cried.  She  heard  the  sound  of 
running  steps.  Then  fell  a  silence  that  pounded  at 
ner  ears.  She  stood  it  as  long  as  she  could.  She  had  to 
see  if  he  had  gone;  what  was  he  doing?  She  peered 
through  the  front  screen  door.  On  the  ground,  close 
by,  sat  the  Indian,  tearing  his  loaf,  gnawing  it  like  a 
beast,  looking  the  beast,  his  eyes  wild  and  menacing. 

She  shivered.  "Go  away,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
river  growth  with  her  revolver.  "Man  come  back; 
soon!" 

He  grabbed  up  his  loaf  to  his  cotton  shirt,  and  ran 
toward  the  river-bank,  a  dark  clump  of  willows  receiv 
ing  him.  Even  then  she  was  afraid  to  leave  the  door. 
He  might  come  back.  She  stood  there,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
that  clump  of  willows  which  had  swallowed  him,  as  the 
desert  stars  came  pricking  through  the  soft  drop-curtain 
of  the  sky.  Her  eyes  had  to  strain  through  the  uncertain 
light,  pale  starshine  and  vague  twilight.  She  could 
barely  make  out  the  outlines  of  the  shrubs. 

Once  she  thought  he  was  returning ;  there  was  a  move 
ment  in  the  willows  as  a  breeze  waved  the  supple 
branches.  Her  finger  sought  the  trigger.  Cold  they 
were,  and  stiff.  Suppose  she  could  not  press  it?  Per 
haps  she  could  not  shoot!  Her  legs,  too,  were  numb 
from  standing.  She  wanted  a  chair,  but  her  eyes  must 
not  leave  for  one  second  that  dark  spot  of  bank.  She 
remembered  a  pine  box  she  used  for  a  supplementary 
table.  If  she  could  but  reach  that!  Her  unoccupied 
hand  groped  through  the  darkness.  Then  she  tried  her 
foot.  A  sharp  broken  scream  burst  from  her.  She 


THE   FACE   IN   THE   WILLOWS          333 

shook, — with  fear,  but  of  course  he  could  not  have  crept 
in!  She  would  have  heard  him  break  the  door.  Fool 
ish,  to  be  so  nervous.  That  was  only  the  box  she  had 
felt,  the  box  with  a  woolen  cloth  over  it,  the  green  and 
yellow  portiere  from  Coulter's,  Chicago.  Was  it  Coul 
ter's?  Where  was  Coulter's?  How  her  head  pounded! 

She  must  not  let  herself  go  like  that.  She  must  con 
trol  herself.  She  had  a  long  night  ahead  of  her. 

For  an  instant,  as  she  relaxed  her  stiffened  muscles 
toward  the  pine  box,  her  sharp  gaze  wavered  from  the 
dark  spot  on  the  river-bank.  She  pulled  herself  together 
sharply;  she  must  not  let  him  surprise  her,  steal  on  her. 
She  must  be  on  guard.  Her  finger  found  the  trigger 
again.  Why  had  she  sent  Sam  ?  Oh,  why  had  she  ever 
let  him  leave  her? 

The  stars  were  coming  out  in  numbers  now.  Increas 
ingly,  their  lamps  fell  on  the  cleared  space  between  the 
tent  and  the  dark  river-line.  A  broad  band  of  star- 
washed  sand  lay  between  her  and  the  skulking  figure  in 
the  brush,  the  Indian  who  had  murdered  Maldonado. 
She  would  see  him  the  instant  he  stepped  out  on  that 
belt  of  light.  If  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed — they  must  not 
stray.  Before  he  could  reach  her,  she  would  shoot. 
She  would  have  no  scruples.  He  had  had  none  for  that 
man  and  woman  down  yonder.  She  wondered  if  they 
were  young,  if  it  was  for  bread  he  had  killed  them. 

Why  was  she  alone?  She  couldn't  remember.  It 
made  her  head  hurt  to  think.  She  was  always  alone  in 
this  desert.  Why  had  she  made  Sam  bring  her  to  such 
a  place,  when  he  wanted  to  stay  home  with  the  folks 
and  the  doctor?  Why  had  they  come?  Oh,  yes,  she  re 
membered.  Their  tent  had  blown  down,  their  Nebraska 
tent.  Funny  to  see  it  come  down,  the  dishes  all  smash- 


334  THE   RIVER 

ing.  What  a  noise  they  made.  It  made  her  laugh  to 
think  of  it.  How  it  made  her  laugh!  Ssh.  She  must 
not  laugh.  He  would  hear  her  over  there.  He  would 
come  creeping  back,  to  leer  at  her. 

What  was  that  smell  ?  Rice,  burning  rice  and  scorched 
codfish.  She  always  let  rice  burn.  She  could  never  re 
member  to  control  that  blue  flame,  no,  it  was  a  yellow 
flame,  long  fingers  of  yellow  fire,  like  the  rays  of  the 
sun  in  the  desert.  Or  was  it  Nebraska?  What  a  smell 
that  was !  And  she  could  not  leave  the  door,  nor  take 
her  eyes  from  the  clump  of  willows  because  the  com 
pany's  automobile  would  be  coming  upon  her,  and  she 
with  her  purple  waist  on. 

What  was  she  thinking  of?  Nothing  was  burning. 
That  had  happened  long  ago,  before  the  scorpion  fright 
ened  her,  before  the  tent  blew  down  back  in  Nebraska. 
She  couldn't  think  straight,  she  was  getting  sleepy.  She 
must  shake  it  off.  Until  Sam  came  back  from  the  levee 
with  the  bottles  of  rice.  She  knew  what  those  Indians 
did  to  people,  hungry  Indians.  They  cut  off  your  scalp. 
Her  hairpins  might  save  her,  wire  hairpins. 

The  Wistaria.  What  made  her  think  of  that?  That 
was  where  the  good  doctor  lived  who  knew  what  was 
the  matter  with  her.  No — that  was  Nebraska.  But 
there  were  no  tents  in  Nebraska.  Her  head  hurt.  She 
wished  he  would  come,  or  Sam. 

There,  a  movement  in  the  brush.  She  must  be  all 
ready  to  shoot.  Suppose  she  could  not  pull  the  trigger? 
Her  fingers  were  like  bits  of  steel.  Sam  would  come 
home  and  find  her  lying  there,  her  scalp  gone.  How 
funny  she  would  look.  Ssh,  she  must  not  laugh.  The 
Indian  did  not  like  it.  He  killed  anybody  who  laughed. 
Sam  had  told  her  so.  From  his  hiding-place,  she  could 


THE   FACE    IN   THE   WILLOWS          335 

see  the  Indian  shake  his  finger  at  her.  No,  it  was  a  wil 
low  branch. — She  must  be  calm! 

Sam  would  be  sorry  that  he  had  had  a  headache.  It 
must  have  been  a  bad  headache,  or  he  would  not  have 
left  her.  He  had  to  get  that  codfish  for  his  head.  No, 
it  was  rice;  burning  rice. 

Her  eyes  burned.  If  the  willows  moved,  could  she 
see  them?  She  wondered  if  she  should  blink  to  rest 
those  burning  balls,  would  he  see  it  and  rush  at  her, 
break  down  that  door,  barred  with  a  wire  hairpin? 

She  had  been  sitting  there  for  years.  Sam  was  never 
coming  back.  Her  gun  lay  on  her  knees;  her  finger 
touched  the  trigger.  Oh,  she  could  not  keep  awake  any 
longer.  She  was  slipping,  slipping  off  to — somewhere. 
The  Wistaria.  She  would  bite  her  lip.  That  would  pull 
her  back.  But  she  could  not  find  her  lip.  It  was  running 
away  from  her. 

There  was  a  stealthy  creeping  sound  outside  the  tent. 
She  could  not  see  anything.  But  her  eyes  pained  so. 
Perhaps  he  was  creeping.  A  shadow  fell  between  her 
and  the  stars.  A  cautious  hand  tried  the  latch. 

She  fell  to  low  shaking  laughter.  Funny,  he  thought 
he  could  get  in !  He  didn't  know  the  door  was  barred — 
an  Indian  fooled  by  a  wire  hairpin!  He  could  never 
get  in.  He  would  hear  her  laughing.  It  would  make 
him  angry. 

"Lizzie!" 

The  laughter  stopped.  He  knew  her  name.  He  was 
trying  to  trick  her,  to  make  his  voice  sound  like  Sam's. 

Her  voice  was  thick  with  strangled  laughter.  "Can't 
come  in.  Can't  get  in.  Barred,  hairpin." 

"Lizzie!" 

"Say,  'sefiora.'    Go  away.    Man  come  back." 


336  THE   RIVER 

"Lizzie !"  There  was  an  impact  of  determined  muscle 
against  wood,  the  door- jamb  splintering.  A  stifled 
scream  rose  toward  the  desert  stars.  The  door  fell  in. 
A  different  sound  split  the  air ;  another  cry  in  a  deeper 
key,  and  a  man's  body  fell  across  her  knees.  Some 
bottles  crashed  to  the  floor.  There  was  a  swift  odor  of 
spilled  ammonia,  of  valerian. 

Something  was  burning  again!  Rice.  Burning  on 
her  knees.  She  couldn't  shake  it  off.  Why  didn't  some 
one  come  and  take  off  this  dead  Indian?  He  hadn't  got 
her  scalp.  It  made  her  laugh — hush,  she  must  call.  She 
fell  to  screaming;  low  terrible  cries,  thick  and  muffled, 
coming  through  her  twitching  and  twisted  mouth. 

She  was  sitting  there  the  next  morning  when  they 
found  her,  the  body  of  Sam  Parrish  shot  to  the  heart, 
lying  at  her  feet.  Her  empty  gun  lay  on  her  knees ;  her 
finger  at  the  trigger.  Her  eyes  stared  into  the  willows. 
They  thought  her  dead  until  they  touched  her.  Then 
she  screamed! 

They  carried  her  out  of  the  valley  the  next  day,  still 
screaming. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  FREEDOM 

THE  siding  was  deserted.  The  Palmyra  had  run 
out  to  Tucson,  carrying  Marshall  and  Claudia  with 
her  tender-hued,  baby-smelling  wools.  Of  that  little 
party,  Tony  made  perhaps  the  larger  gap,  Tony  with  his 
diamond  blazing  on  his  ringer,  his  "holdouts,"  left-overs 
from  the  Marshall  table,  and  his  case  of  smuggled  triple 
X  whisky.  The  young  fellows  encouraged  his  stories 
of  old  San  Francisco,  of  Bliss  and  his  yellow  tips,  of 
wonderful  dinners,  of  the  Bush  Street  Theater  when  Mc- 
Cullough  and  Barrett  were  there.  Ah,  those  the  only 
days !  A  forefinger  would  flank  Tony's  wicked  eye. 

Marshall  had  gone  without  apprehension.  They  did 
not  expect  now  to  have  setbacks,  to  have  to  extend  the 
time  set  for  the  ultimate  diversion.  The  days  were  flow 
ing  like  oil. 

The  encampment  was  filling  up  with  visitors,  news 
paper  men  who  came  to  report  the  spectacular  capture 
of  the  river.  Gerty  was  finding  some  opportunities  for 
her  chafing-dish  and  lingerie  gowns,  but  the  fish  felt 
small  to  her  net.  The  attention  she  received  assuaged 
little  of  her  pride.  "At  any  rate,  Rickard  will  see  it." 
On  the  Delta,  for  the  young  engineers  were  relaxing 
again  toward  hospitality,  she  was  a  belle.  Every  after 
noon,  she  served  tea  to  a  small  court. 

337 


338  THE   RIVER 

Brandon  came  down,  sent  by  the  Sun,  his  old  paper. 
Rickard  had  the  newcomer's  tent  pitched  next  his  own. 
He  was  anticipating  snatches  of  intimacy  with  this  cos 
mopolitan,  whose  sweetness  he  felt  sure  was  the  ripe 
result  of  some  deep  experience.  His  few  hours  in  the 
Imperial  tent  had  discovered  to  him  a  rare  brain.  He 
was  keen  to  see  more  of  him. 

The  day  after  his  arrival,  Brandon  sent  a  telegram  to 
his  wife.  He  told  Rickard  about  it  afterward. 

"I  suppose  I  should  have  asked  you  first,"  he  admitted. 
"I  may  have  taken  a  liberty!" 

"I  think  you  couldn't  do  that,"  smiled  Rickard.  "This 
camp  is  yours,  senor !" 

"Impulse  does  not  often  carry  me  away."  The  trim- 
cut,  dog-like  face  of  the  irrigationist  frowned.  "I  should 
have  asked  you.  But  seeing  other  women  here  gave  me 
the  idea,  I  suppose.  I  telegraphed  for  Mrs.  Brandon 
to  join  me  here." 

Deliberately  Rickard  controlled  the  muscles  of  his 
face.  Every  one  else  knew  what  he  thought  about  women 
in  camp.  He  hoped  that  he  would  not  be  quoted  to 
Brandon. 

"It  is  a  little  different,  I  think,  from  ordinary  cases," 
Brandon  was  working  up  a  justification.  "Mrs.  Bran 
don  is  a  writer  of  fiction,  of  some  note.  You  have  run 
across  her  books,  her  pen  name — George  Verne." 

Rickard's  face  held  back  the  surprise  of  it.  A  smile 
suffused  his  mind.  Brandon,  the  classicist,  the  Sun's 
pet  man,  a  specialist  on  irrigation,  related  by  marriage 
to  The  Cowboy's  Bride!  He  acknowledged  that  he 
knew  her  by  name,  had  seen  her  books.  He  had  been 
in  remote  places,  where  English  matter  is  scarce,  and 
had  often  found  George  Verne  usurping  the  shelves. 


A   GLIMPSE    OF   FREEDOM  339 

"I  should  think  she  would  find  this  an  opportunity," 
he  agreed.  He  had  caught  a  hint  of  returning  fires  in 
the  calm  gray  eyes. 

The  thin  lips  were  pursed  musingly.  "But  it  is  pretty 
hard  for  her  to  leave  New  York.  Her  publishers  keep 
her  pretty  busy." 

Rickard's  silence  was  not  inactive.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  diverted  lives ;  of  Brandon  living  out  his  banish 
ment  in  a  western  desert  tent;  George  Verne  weaving 
her  stories  hundreds  of  miles  away  in  a  New  York  apart 
ment-house. 

"The  separation  is  hard  on  both  of  us."  The  man  was 
revealing  his  renunciations  in  this  instant  of  homesick 
ness  ;  his  guards  were  down.  "When  my  trouble  came, 
I  had  hoped  that  her  work  might  make  it  possible  for 
her  to  come  out  with  me,  at  least  half  her  time,  that 
she  might  gather  material.  But  they  crowd  her  with 
orders ;  she  works  right  through  the  hot  summers ;  I 
don't  remember  when  she  has  taken  a  vacation.  I  run 
out  once  in  a  while  to  try  to  stop  her,  to  make  her  play 
a  little.  But  my  cough  comes  back;  she  has  the  habit 
of  grind  by  this  time.  I'm  hoping  this  will  appeal  to  her 
as  a  chance ;  it's  a  tremendous  setting,  this !" 

He  chatted  about  valley  happenings  for  a  few  minutes 
before  leaving. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you?"  inquired  Rickard. 

"Thank  you,  no.  I'm  off  now  to  the  Crossing  to  see 
Marshall's  gate.  And  I  want  to  see  Matt  Hamlin.  He 
was  my  host  once,  years  ago." 

Rickard's  mail  that  morning  included  a  letter  from 
his  chief  at  Tucson.  Marshall  delivered  a  peremptory 
mandate  from  Faraday.  The  borrow-pits  and  muck- 
ditches  were  to  be  constructed  according  to  precedent. 


340  THE   RIVER 

The  stream-side  excavating  was  to  be  continued.  Mar 
shall  added  that  this  order  admitted  no  argument. 

Rickard,  fuming  helplessly,  read  the  letter  to  Mac- 
Lean,  Jr.  "Everybody  sticking  his  precious  fingers  in 
the  pie.  Tying  me  up  with  orders.  What  does  Faraday 
know  about  it,  I'd  like  to  know?"  MacLean  observed  a 
Hardin  inflection. 

The  mail  had  brought  other  exasperations.  A  class 
mate  he  had  been  wiring  for,  an  engineer  specialist  on 
hydraulics,  was  ill.  There  was  another  letter  from  Mar 
shall,  with  enclosures.  More  complaints  from  Chicago. 
Rickard  declared  he  could  "smell"  Washington. 

Irish  brought  the  news  of  the  Parrish  horror.  The 
opened  vein  of  tragedy  stained  the  day.  The  double 
tragedy,  the  three  sharp  deaths  sobered  the  camp,  pre 
paring  for  its  coup. 

"War!"  summed  up  Rickard.  "Our  army  marches 
over  dead  bodies." 

The  day  badly  begun,  piled  up  with  vexations.  By 
evening,  Rickard's  temper,  slow  to  rouse,  was  on  the 
rampage.  His  men  got  out  of  his  way.  The  river  flot 
sam  was  piling  up  against  the  gate  and  making  a  kink  in 
the  trestle.  There  was  a  nasty  bend.  Rickard  spent  his 
afternoon  on  the  by-pass,  jumping  from  boats  to  rafts, 
directing  the  pile-drivers,  driving  the  stolid  bucks.  By 
sundown,  he  was  wet  to  the  skin,  and  mad,  he  told  Mac- 
Lean,  Jr.,  as  a  sick  Arizona  cat. 

In  this  jaundiced  juncture,  MacLean,  Jr.,  brought 
down  his  despatches  to  the  river. 

"Anything  important?"  cried  Casey  from  the  raft. 
"Read  them  to  me.  I  can  hear." 

MacLean  read  of  the  burning  of  a  trainload  of  rail- 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FREEDOM  341 

road  ties  in  a  nasty  wreck  on  the  way  to  the  break ;  just 
out  of  Galveston.  To  purge  his  mood,  Rickard  swore. 

"If  that  isn't  the  darndest."  He  had  "luck"  on  his 
tongue.  His  mood  had  been  paralleling,  disagreeably  to 
his  consciousness,  Tom  Hardin's  manner.  He  withheld 
the  word. 

"Anything  else  pleasant?" 

"A  letter  from  the  governor — from  dad.  Nothing 
important."  MacLean  had  that  instant  decided  to  leave 
that  letter  on  the  desk  where  Rickard  might  find  it  by 
himself. 

"Fire  away,"  cried  Rickard,  stretching  the  cramp  from 
his  shoulders. 

Uncomfortably,  MacLean  cleared  his  throat  before  he 
read  that  his  father  begged  a  small  favor  of  Rickard. 
"Godfrey,  the  celebrated  English  tenor,  is  on  my  hands. 
His  doctors  have  been  advising  outdoor  occupation.  I 
am  sending  him  to  you,  asking  you  to  give  him  any  job 
you  may  have.  He  is  willing  to  do  anything.  Put  him 
at  something  to  keep  him  occupied." 

MacLean  saw  Rickard's  face  turn  red.  "Suffering 
cats !  A  worn-out  opera-singer !  What  sort  of  an  opera 
does  he  think  we're  giving  down  here?  Why  doesn't  he 
send  me  a  fur  coat,  or  a  pair  of  girl  twins?  Give  the 
tenor  a  role !  Anything  else  ?  Pile  it  all  on." 

"That's  all."  MacLean  was  turning  away.  Then,  as 
an  afterthought,  he  threw  over  his  shoulder,  "Oh,  and 
one  from  Godfrey  himself.  He's  in  Los  Angeles.  He 
says  he'll  be  here  to-morrow."  He  did  not  wait  for  his 
chief's  reply. 

At  the  supper-table,  Rickard,  dry  and  in  restored 
humor,  alluded  to  the  invasion  of  high  notes.  "Pity  the 


342  THE   RIVER 

parts  are  all  assigned!  He  might  have  done  the  Torea 
dor,'  or  'Canio.'  The  only  vacancy — "  he  could  safely 
gibe  at  his  own  complications,  for  the  Hardins  were 
dining  on  the  Delta  that  evening,  "is  in  the  kitchen. 
I  wonder  how  he  would  like  to  be  understudy  to  Ling!" 

The  next  day  when  the  incident  had  been  forgotten, 
and  while  Rickard  was  up  at  the  Crossing  on  the  con 
crete  gate,  Godfrey  blew  into  camp.  He  was  like  a  boy 
out  on  a  lark.  His  brown  eyes  were  dancing  over  the 
adventure. 

"He's  certainly  not  sick,"  thought  MacLean,  Jr. 
"Must  be  his  throat/'  He  was  a  little  piqued  over 
Rickard's  sarcasm.  What  in  creation  was  his  father 
thinking  about,  anyway? 

Godfrey  asked  to  be  turned  loose.  "I  won't  be  in 
any  one's  way !"  He  explored  the  Heading,  covered  the 
by-pass  in  a  river  boat,  went  a  way  down  the  river,  down 
the  old  channel  through  which  considerable  water  was 
now  flowing,  made  the  trip  down  the  levee  work,  on 
horseback,  and  came  back  bubbling. 

"It's  the  biggest  thing  I  ever  saw.  But  say,  Junior, 
that's  what  they  call  you,  isn't  it?  I'm  the  only  idle  man 
here.  Can't  you  give  me  something  to  do?" 

MacLean  was  not  sure  but  that  the  suggestion  of 
Rickard's  had  been  a  jest.  He  felt  abashed  to  repeat  it. 
"I'll  do  anything,"  twinkled  the  handsome  tenor.  "I'd 
like  the  boss  to  find  me  busy  when  he  comes  in." 

MacLean  softened  the  offer.  Perhaps  until  Mr.  God 
frey  learned  the  ropes  he  could  be  of  general  use.  They 
were  short-handed  the  present  moment — there  was  an 
other  hesitation — in  the  kitchen!  Ling,  the  Chinese 
cook,  was  overcrowded — so  many  visitors — 

"Great,"  crowed  Godfrey,  slapping  him  on  the  shoul- 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FREEDOM  343 

der.  "I  don't  want  to  feel  in  the  way.  I  want  to  earn 
my  board.  And  it's  not  bad  to  keep  on  the  right  side  of 
the  cook.  No  one  can  beat  me  beating  eggs." 

His  spirits  were  infectious.  "Not  many  eggs  in  this 
camp !"  grinned  MacLean. 

"Lead  me  to  the  cook!"  declaimed  the  newcomer. 
"Chin  chin  Chinaman !"  he  sang  at  a  daring  pitch.  "Chin 
chin  Chinaman,  chop,  chop,  chop!"  His  voice  had  the 
world-adored  quality,  the  vibrant  stirring  thrill  which 
is  never  tremolo. 

"He'll  do,"  thought  the  youth.  He  foresaw  concerts 
on  the  deck  of  the  Delta. 

That  evening,  the  dinner  was  helped  on  its  way  by  the 
best  paid  singer  of  England.  In  an  apron,  borrowed  of 
Ling,  he  was  "having  the  time  of  his  life."  Ling,  pre 
tending  to  scold,  had  been  won  immediately.  Rickard, 
hearing  of  the  jolly  advent,  forgot  his  vexation,  and  im 
mediately  on  his  return  made  his  way  to  the  mesquit 
enclosure — to  greet  the  friend  of  George  MacLean. 

It  was  a  comic  opera  already  to  Godfrey.  He  had 
won  over  Ling  by  doing  all  of  the  tedious  jobs.  Had 
peeled  the  potatoes,  opened  the  cans  of  tomatoes,  washed 
the  rice  and  scoured  the  pans.  As  Rickard,  obscured 
by  the  mesquit  hedge,  reached  the  enclosure,  the  new 
comer  was  entering  by  the  riverside. 

"Hi,  there,  you,"  cried  Ling.  "Where  you  put  my 
potato  skins?  Save  potato  skins.  Me  plant  skins  by 
liver,  laise  plenty  potatoes — bimeby." 

Godfrey  laughed  uproariously.  He  pounced  on  a 
red  slab  of  bacon  rind  and  was  making  for  the  outside, 
Rickard  vastly  entertained. 

"Hi,  there,"  yelled  Ling.  "Hi,  stop.  No  thlow  bacon 
away.  Save  bacon.  Me  make  hot  cakes,  grease  pan." 


344  THE   RIVER 

"Not  on  your  life/'  Godfrey  swept  the  irate  Ling  and 
the  entering  stranger  in  khaki  a  deep  theatric  bow. 
"Ling  no  get  bacon.  Me  plant  bacon  by  river.  Me  raise 
hogs!" 

Thus  met  Rickard  and  the  tenor,  who  captured  the 
camp  that  night  with  his  singing.  After  dinner,  Mac- 
Lean  carried  off  his  prize  to  the  Delta,  where  Godfrey 
earned  his  welcome.  In  a  dark  corner,  Brandon  was 
feeling  the  edge  of  his  disappointment.  George  Verne 
was  blocking  out  a  new  book,  so  she  had  wired.  She  was 
too  busy  to  come.  Gerty  Hardin  forgot  to  flirt  with  the 
engineers;  she  had  discovered  a  new  sensation.  The 
wonderful  voice  twisted  her  heart-strings;  it  told  her 
that  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets,  and  she 
knew  that  she  could  never  have  really  loved,  yet,  because 
the  youth  in  her  veins  was  whispering  to  her  that  she 
could  still  forget.  Godfrey  saw  a  mobile  plaintive  face 
turned  up  to  the  gibbous  moon;  he  swept  it  with  thrills 
and  flushes.  She  was  a  wonderful  audience;  she  was 
also  his  orchestra,  the  woman  with  the  plaintive  eyes. 
He  played  on  her  expressions  as  though  she  were  a  harp. 

Later,  he  was  presented  to  Mrs.  Hardin.  She  told 
him  that  the  camp  would  no  longer  be  dull ;  that  she  had 
tea  every  afternoon  in  her  ramada.  She  convicted  him 
archly  of  British-hood.  "She  knew  he  must  have  his 
tea!" 

"You  American  women  are  the  wonders  of  the  world ! 
Nothing  daunts  you.  In  the  desert,  and  you  give  after 
noon  teas.  I'll  be  there  every  day!" 

He  gave  her  open  admiration ;  she  looked  young  and 
wistful  in  her  soft  flowing  mulls,  the  moonlight  helping 
her.  She  fell  into  a  delicious  flurry  of  nerves  and  ex 
citement.  Later,  she  wandered  with  him  from  a  rude 


A   GLIMPSE   OF   FREEDOM  345 

gaping  world  into  a  heaven  of  silvered  decks  and  gleam 
ing  waters.  He  told  her  of  himself,  of  his  loneliness ;  his 
music  had  dropped  him  to  self-pity. 

Gerty  Hardin  heard  her  bars  drop  behind  her.     She 
snatched  her  first  glimpse  of  freedom. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  DRAGON   SCORES 

THE  Palmyra  was  once  again  on  its  siding.  Mar 
shall  was  at  the  Front  again;  having  made  an 
other  of  his  swift  dashes  from  Tucson.  This  time  he 
expected  officially  to  close  the  gate.  Claudia  was  with 
him.  She  never  left  the  car,  unless  it  were  to  step  out 
to  the  platform  to  see  what  she  could  from  there  of  the 
river  work,  immediately  returning  to  her  wool  work  in 
the  shaded  compartment. 

Hardin  and  Rickard  had  been  devoting  anxious  weeks. 
A  heavy  rainfall  and  cloudburst  in  the  mountains  of 
northern  Arizona  had  swollen  the  feeders  of  the  Gila 
River  which  roared  down  to  the  Colorado  above  Yuma. 
The  eroding  streams  carried  mountains  in  solution  which 
settled  against  the  gate,  a  scour  starting  above  and  below 
it.  Relief  had  to  be  given  on  the  jump.  A  spur-track 
was  rushed  across  the  by-pass  above  the  gate,  as  the 
closing  of  the  ill-fated  gate  with  the  flash-boards  was 
no  longer  possible.  A  rock-fill  was  the  only  means  of 
closure.  In  the  distant  quarries  men  were  digging  out 
rock  to  fill  the  call  from  the  river. 

Marshall  came  down  to  see  the  completed  spur.  Be 
fore  he  reached  the  intake,  the  first  rock  train  had  moved 
on  to  the  spur-track.  The  trestle  had  settled,  the  train 
thrown  from  the  rails  and  wrecked. 

346 


THE   DRAGON    SCORES  347 

"That's  not  the  way  I  planned  to  dump  that  rock!" 
was  Rickard's  comment.  "Now,  we'll  have  to  stop  and 
straighten  out  that  trestle." 

"If  we'd  had  those  rock-aprons,  this'd  never  have  hap 
pened,"  stormed  Hardin,  who  was  standing  on  the  bank 
when  the  trestle  gave  way. 

They  were  already  repairing  that  disaster  when  the 
Palmyra  was  cradled  on  its  siding.  Marshall  from  one 
platform,  Tony,  white-capped  from  the  rear,  started 
out  for  the  river.  Claudia  settled  herself  for  a  quiet 
morning. 

When  Innes  Hardin  came  in  later,  she  felt  that  she 
was  interrupting  a  fierce  orgy.  But  Mrs.  Marshall  would 
not  let  her  go.  "I  can  knit  just  as  fast  when  I  talk." 

The  shades  were  all  pulled  down.  To  Innes'  protest, 
her  hostess  declared  that  "she  could  see  with  her  fin 
gers."  Innes  had  never  asked  the  destiny  of  the  little 
knitted  jackets;  earlier  in  the  acquaintance  she  had  sur 
mised  a  pressing  haste  for  some  sister,  or  niece ;  a  tender 
date.  She  had  seen  several  downy  sacques  completed; 
but  still  those  black  needles  clicked. 

Later,  Marshall  came  in  from  the  damaged  trestle, 
bringing  Rickard  and  Crothers.  The  chief  was  in  buoy 
ant  spirits,  as  though  the  accident  had  played  to  his  hand, 
instead  of  against  it. 

"I've  brought  company  to  lunch,  mother,"  his  mellow 
voice  called  through  the  car. 

Only  one  caught  the  look  of  pain  that  twisted  the 
severe  features  of  Claudia  Marshall.  Instantly,  Innes 
saw  it  disciplined  into  a  welcoming  smile.  And  then  she 
herself  fell  to  flushing,  and  chilling,  as  a  lithe-muscled 
figure  came  directly  to  her.  His  eyes — where  was  the 
look  she  had  feared,  of  possessive  tenderness?  The 


348  THE    RIVER 

quizzical  gleam  was  gone.  On  guard!  A  solemn  busi 
ness,  loving,  when  you  know  that  it  means — Life!  On 
guard,  though,  to  her!  She  pulled  her  fingers  from  his 
strong  lingering  clasp,  and  joined  Mrs.  Marshall,  who 
was  again  busily  knitting,  until  Tony's  crisp  whiteness 
crackled  into  the  apartment. 

Rickard  had  his  soldier  look  on.  She  was  watching 
him  covertly  as  he  talked  with  his  host  and  Crothers, 
as  though  she  were  not  there ;  as  though  something  were 
not  waiting  for  him  to  claim !  She  told  herself  that  she 
would  have  no  character  if  she  did  not  deny  him,  when 
he  came  for  her.  How  could  he  be  talking,  oblivious  of 
everything  else  in  the  world  except  that  river?  Was 
that — loving?  Could  she  think  of  anything  else  when 
he  was  in  the  same  room  with  her  ?  Was  that  the  differ 
ence  between  men  and  women?  Woman's  whole  exist 
ence!  He  was  a  soldier  of  the  modern  army.  It  came 
to  her,  a  sort  of  tender  divination,  that  he  would  not 
divide  his  thoughts,  even  with  her,  with  Love,  until  his 
battle  was  won.  He  owed  his  mind  clear  and  on  duty 
to  the  work  on  hand.  Well,  couldn't  she  understand 
that?  What  her  accusation  against  Gerty?  Sex  honor 
— keep  off  the  track!  Wasn't  that  her  own  notion? 
Oughtn't  she  to  be  proud  of  him? 

She  had  brought  a  nest  of  waspish  thoughts  tumbling 
about  her  ears.  Gerty!  He  had  loved  Gerty.  Her  re 
sentment  was  alive  again.  Perhaps,  it  was  not  true. 
Perhaps,  some  day  he  would  tell  her  that  it  was  not  true, 
had  never  been  true.  He  couldn't  love  her,  if  his  thoughts 
had  ever  lingered,  with  that  same  seriously  solemn  look 
on  the  false  little  face  of  her  sister-in-law. 

A  slur  to  a  chef  could  one  talk  of  else  but  food  while 
banqueting!  Tony's  white  cap  danced  around  the  table 


THE   DRAGON    SCORES  349 

after  he  had  seated  them,  urging  their  appetites.  Mrs. 
Marshall  tried  to  suppress  him;  Marshall  and  Rickard 
wickedly  abetting  his  capering.  He  forced  a  commenda 
tion  of  his  bouillon  from  dreamy  Innes;  the  recipe,  he 
boasted,  was  his  own.  Tod  Marshall's  query  as  to  the 
Spanish  peppers  evoked  a  long  history.  The  lunch  was 
served  to  a  running  accompaniment  of  his  reminiscences, 
when  he  had  been  a  restaurateur,  and  the  great  Samuel 
Bliss  one  of  his  patrons.  He  was  working  up  a  cres 
cendo  of  courses.  With  the  importance  of  a  premier,  he 
bore  in  a  majestic,  seasoned  plank  carrying  a  thick  steak. 
Another  trip  to  the  kitchen  returned  a  primrose  sauce. 

"Tony  will  be  insulted  if  you  do  not  all  mention  the 
Bernaise,"  Marshall  had  suggested  during  the  chef's 
absence. 

Rickard  declared  without  straining  his  veracity  that 
it  was  the  best  Bernaise  he  had  ever  tasted.  Tony's  face 
worked  with  emotion. 

"It  is  because  no  one  knows  how  to  mix  a  Bernaise — 
bah,  the  bad  stuff  I've  eaten !  When  I  go  to  a  big  city, 
I  go  to  the  finest  hotel.  Good  clothes,  a  diamond  ring," 
his  finger  shot  up  to  his  nose.  "And  who  would  refuse 
to  give  me  a  table  to  myself  ?  WTho  would  believe  that  it 
is  a  cook?  I  say,  'Your  best  wine,  and  the  steak  thick, 
and  a  sauce  Bernaise !'  Never  have  I  tasted  it  but  once 
fit  to  serve  to  a  gentleman  like  Mr.  Marshall — or  Mr. 
Bliss.  They  make  it  with  poor  vinegar.  You  can  not 
make  the  sauce  Bernaise  without  the  best  Tarra-r-rragon 
vinegar."  His  r's  hurtled  out  like  a  burst  of  artillery. 
"Everywhere  you  can  not  get  the  real  Tar-r-ragon 
vinegar.  Ah !"  His  face  grew  wolfish  and  eager.  "Tony 
knows.  Tony  always  carries  it  with  him  for  the  great 
gentlemen  like  Mr.  Bliss,  Mr.  Marshall — " 


350  THE   RIVER 

"Some  bread,  Tony,"  clipped  in  Mrs.  Marshall.  "You 
can  not  teach  him  his  place,"  she  complained  in  the  in 
terval,  "if  you  let  him  talk  like  this !" 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  want  to,  mother!" 

Innes  saw  again  the  look  of  pain.  Did  he  think  her 
life  complete,  in  its  guarding  of  his  own  reckless  one! 
Innes  thought  pitifully  of  the  little  knitted  jackets. 
Hadn't  he  ever  sensed — those? 

Tony  trotted  back  with  the  bread.  He  was  eager  with 
speech,  but  Rickard  was  beginning  a  river  anecdote,  of 
his  introduction  to  Godfrey,  the  story  of  the  bacon  rind, 
Marshall  was  at  once  interested  in  the  tenor. 

"We  must  have  him  down  some  night  to  sing  for  us, 
eh,  mother?" 

"Oh,  I  wish  he  wouldn't  call  her  that !"  yearned  Innes. 

A  rich  salad  of  mayonnaise  and  canned  shrimps  was 
rejected,  to  the  chef's  despair. 

"Why,  you'll  incapacitate  us,  Tony."  Marshall  waved 
it  away.  "I  want  to  get  back  to  Tucson  alive.  Now,  a 
cup  of  coffee,  not  another  thing  on  your  life — or  I'll  cut 
your  salary.  I  want  Mr.  Rickard  to  do  some  work  this 
afternoon!  Now  be  quick  with  the  coffee." 

Deep  gloom  covered  the  retreat  of  the  salad. 

The  coffee  was  brought  in  with  ascetic  simplicity.  But 
Tony  was  not  to  be  crushed.  While  Marshall  was  talk 
ing  to  Rickard,  he  insinuated  a  platter  of  cream  puffs  to 
ward  the  ladies. 

Marshall  caught  the  sly  action.  He  stopped.  "You 
can  have  one — but  only  one,  Rickard,"  he  commanded. 
"If  Tony  does  not  mind  me,  you  must." 

"If  you  will  excuse  me,"  Rickard  was  rising.  "Tony, 
will  you  owe  it  to  me  ?  There  really  is  other  work  to  be 
done  to-day.  You  are  setting  a  bad  example  in  camp, 


THE   DRAGON    SCORES  351 

Mr.  Marshall,  you  and  Tony.  We  are  not  sybarites 
here."  His  good-by  to  Innes  was  guarded.  Why  should 
she  drop  her  eyes,  she  asked  herself  angrily?  Nothing 
there  that  the  whole  world  might  not  see!  Marshall 
went  out  to  the  platform  with  his  engineer.  Immediately 
he  came  back,  smiling,  "Look  here,  girls !" 

Claudia  and  Innes  Hardin  followed  him  to  the  plat 
form.  Under  the  kitchen  window,  a  group  of  young 
engineers  were  eating  indiscriminate  "hand-outs."  Mac- 
Lean,  unabashed,  waved  a  lukewarm  stuffed  pepper  at 
his  chief.  Bodefeldt,  caught  red-handed,  crimsoned 
under  his  desert  tan  when  Innes'  glance  isolated  him, 
his  mouth  full  of  cream  puffs,  his  hand  greasy  from  fried 
bananas. 

"He's  a  prince,"  cried  Bangs,  of  the  Reclamation 
Service. 

"He  can  afford  to  be  on  that  salary,"  cried  MacLean, 
with  roguish  intention.  "I'd  be  generous  on  a  hundred 
and  fifty  a  month." 

"Mex.,"  cried  Bangs.    "That's  only  seventy-five." 

"It's  a  hundred  and  fifty,"  spluttered  the  white  cap 
from  the  window.  "I  spend  it  in  Mexico ;  I  get  twice  as 
much  for  a  dollar  down  there." 

"Don't  let  them  tease  you,  Tony,"  laughed  Marshall. 
"You'll  spend  that  hundred  and  fifty  in  Mexico  next 
week." 

They  were  standing  in  the  shade  of  the  Palmyra, 
Claudia  on  the  platform  shading  her  eyes,  Innes  on  the 
step  below.  It  was  a  soft  still  afternoon.  There  was 
no  wind ;  not  a  cloud  blurred  the  sky.  The  burning  heat 
of  summer  had  passed,  giving  place  to  a  warmth  that  was 
like  a  caress.  The  fierceness  of  the  savage  desert  had 
melted  to  her  days  of  lure.  Beyond,  the  turbid  waters 


353  THE   RIVER 

of  the  Colorado  bore  a  smiling  surface.  There  was 
nothing  to  hint  of  treachery. 

It  was  a  minute  of  pleasant  lassitude,  snatched  from 
the  turmoil.  Rickard  had  succumbed  to  the  softness  of 
the  day  and  his  mood.  He  was  enjoying  the  thought  of 
Innes'  nearness,  though  she  kept  her  face  turned  from 
him.  He  knew  by  the  persistence  of  those  averted  eyes 
that  she  was  as  acutely  conscious  of  his  presence  as  he 
was,  restfully,  of  hers.  Deliberately,  he  was  prolonging 
the  instant. 

"Well?"  said  Marshall.  The  group  moved.  Rickard 
turned  toward  his  hostess.  Just  then  a  strange  thing 
happened.  A  stir  on  the  river  had  caught  the  alert  eye 
of  Tod  Marshall.  He  swore  a  string  of  picturesque  Mar- 
shallian  oaths.  Rickard's  eyes  jumped  toward  the  by 
pass.  The  placid  waters  had  suddenly  buckled.  Majes 
tically,  the  gate  rose  and  went  out.  They  watched  it 
variously,  the  groups  by  the  Palmyra;  the  catastrophe 
too  big  for  speech.  Months  of  work  swept  away !  The 
gate  drifted  a  hundred  feet  or  more,  then  stopped  as 
though  sentience,  or  a  planned  terminal,  were  governing 
its  motion.  Some  unseen  obstruction  caught  it  there,  to 
mock  at  the  labors  of  man. 

Innes,  aghast,  had  turned  toward  Rickard.  His  face 
jWas  expressionless.  There  was  a  babel  of  excited  voices 
behind  them,  Bodefeldt,  MacLean,  Tony,  Crothers, 
Bangs,  all  talking  at  once.  Her  eyes  demanded  some 
thing  of  Rickard.  A  fierce  resentment  rose  against  his 
calmness.  "He  knew  it,"  she  rebelled.  "He's  been  ex 
pecting  this  to  happen.  It's  no  tragedy  to  him!"  There 
was  a  stab  as  of  physical  pain ;  she  was  visualizing  the 
blow  to  Tom. 

She    heard    Marshall's    voice,    speaking   to    Rickard. 


THE   DRAGON   SCORES  353 

"Well,  you're  ready  for  this."  She  did  not  hear  the 
answer,  for  already  Rickard  was  heading  for  the  by 
pass.  Marshall  and  the  young  engineers  followed  him. 
The  women  were  left  staring.  An  odd  sound  came  from 
the  rear  of  the  car. 

"What  is  that?"  demanded  Claudia. 

They  found  Coronel  sitting  on  the  ground,  his  knees 
drawn  up  to  his  chin.  His  mud-crusted  head  was  turned 
riverward.  His  age-curdled  eyes,  fixed  on  the  spot 
where  the  gate  had  been,  did  not  see  them.  A  moaning 
issued  from  his  shut  lips.  His  paint-striped  shoulders 
were  shaking  with  dry  sobs.  He  had  been  watching, 
waiting  for  fifteen  years.  It  was  all  over,  now,  to  him. 
The  Great  Dragon  had  conquered. 

Innes  moved  toward  him.  Coronel  cared,  Coronel  and 
Tom!  The  Indian  sat,  wrapped  in  his  grief.  To  the 
girl  the  worst,  too,  had  happened.  She  had  refused  to 
believe  in  the  possibility  of  failure.  Her  brother's  op 
timism  had  swept  her  along.  That  wreck  down  yonder 
was  worse  than  failure ;  it  was  ruin.  It  involved  Tom's 
life.  It  was  his  life.  This  would  be  the  final  crushing 
of  his  superb  courage — her  thoughts  released  from  their 
paralysis  were  whipped  by  sudden  fear.  She  must  find 
him,  be  with  him.  She  did  not  see  the  look  of  sympathy 
on  Claudia  Marshall's  face.  She  felt  alone,  with  Cor 
onel.  The  next  instant,  she  was  speeding  like  a  young 
colt  toward  the  encampment. 

Estrada  met  her  on  the  run.  "Have  you  heard?"  she 
cried.  Estrada  said  he  had  just  been  talking  to  Rickard. 
He  looked  sorry,  she  reflected  after  she  left  him, 
sorry  for  her;  but  not  surprised.  "No  one  is  surprised 
but  Coronel,  Coronel  and  I." 

Had  Gerty  heard  ?    The  pity  that  she  must  know !    She 


354  THE   RIVER 

would  not  be  tender  to  Tom;  her  pride  would  be 
wounded.  She  must  ask  her  to  be  tender,  generous.  Her 
footsteps  slackened  as  she  came  in  sight  of  the  tents. 

She  heard  voices  in  the  ramada,  a  man's  clear  notes 
mingling  with  Gerty's  childish  treble.  "Godfrey !"  Her 
mind  jumped  to  other  tete-a-tetes.  Of  course!  Abun 
dant  opportunity,  with  herself  and  Tom  at  the  break  all 
day!  So  that  was  what  was  going  on.  And  she  not 
seeing!  Just  a  cheap  little  woman!  If  not  one  man, 
then  another!  Conquests,  attention!  Horrid  little  clan 
destine  affairs! 

The  meeting  was  awkward.  Speedily,  Innes  got  rid 
of  the  news.  She  caught  an  odd  look  glittering  in  Mrs. 
Hardin's  eyes.  The  same  expression  Rickard  had  worn 
when  the  gate  went  out!  As  though  his  slate  had  been 
cleared,  as  though  her  sister-in-law  saw  an  obstacle  drop 
from  her  path. 

Mrs.  Hardin  shrugged.  Her  shrugs  were  dainty,  not 
the  hunching  variety.  She  merely  moved  her  shoulders, 
the  action  as  elusive  as  a  twinkle. 

"I  believe  I'll  go  out."  Plaintively,  she  made  the  an 
nouncement  as  though  it  were  just  evolved.  "Now,  the 
camp  will  be  horrid.  Everybody  will  be  cross,  and  every 
body  will  be  working.  Perspiring  men  are  not  inspiring 
men!" 

As  she  left  the  tent  beyond,  Innes  could  hear  the  vi 
brant  voice  of  Godfrey  persuading  Mrs.  Hardin  to  stay 
there  a  few  weeks  longer.  She  could  hear  him  say,  "This 
will  delay  the  turning  of  the  river  at  the  most  but  a  few 
weeks.  Rickard  told  me  so  a  week  ago.  And  think  what 
it  would  be  here  without  you !" 

"They  were  all  expecting  it!"  resisted  Innes  Hardin. 
She  turned  back  toward  the  river.  She  must  find  Tom. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A   SUNDAY   SPECTACLE 

ROUBLE  with  the  tribes,  innocent  and  childish  in 
-L  its  first  aspect,  was  well  grown  before  it  was  rec 
ognized.  Disaffection  was  ripe,  the  bucks  were  heady, 
the  white  man's  silver  acting  like  wine.  Few  of  the 
braves  had  dreamed  of  ever  possessing  sums  of  money 
such  as  they  drew  down  each  Sunday  morning.  They 
were  paid  a  white  man's  wage,  and  to  each  group  of  ten 
went  another  man's  pay,  "lagniappe,"  to  be  paid  to  a 
squaw  cook  for  the  squad.  The  extra  sum  had  excited 
from  the  first  a  gentle  insurrection.  Had  they  dared, 
they  would  have  divided  it  among  themselves,  but  the 
obloquy  of  "squaw  man"  confronted  them.  The  discus 
sion  was  weekly ;  over  their  pipes  and  their  fires  that 
sum  was  passed,  itching  their  palms. 

It  was  a  solemn  processional,  smacking  of  ceremonial, 
which  filed  into  Rickard's  ramada  every  Sunday.  Pay 
time  was  the  climax  of  their  week,  the  symbol  of  the 
revel  which  followed.  All  day,  the  bucks  danced  and 
glutted. 

Rickard  began  to  suspect  liquor  again.  The  comman 
dant  and  Forestier  protested.  There  was  no  way  of 
their  getting  liquor.  Still  Rickard  shrugged,  incredulous. 
In  the  Indian  camp,  Sunday  was  a  day  of  feasting,  fol- 

355 


356  THE   RIVER 

lowed  by  a  gorged  sleep;  the  next  day,  one  of  languor, 
of  growing  incohesion. 

Rickard  spoke  of  it  to  Coronel  who  was  his  "go-be 
tween,"  as  MacLean,  Jr.,  dubbed  him,  a  valuable  inter 
preter,  because  he  transcribed  the  spirit  of  an  interview. 
Coronel's  patois,  mongrel  and  pantomimic,  was  current 
coin  among  all  the  tribes. 

"Like  small  baby,"  hunched  the  old  shoulders.  "Happy 
baby.  Pretty  soon  stop." 

With  the  next  wages  went  a  reprimand,  then  a  warn 
ing.  Still  followed  bad  Mondays.  It  was  easy  to  see 
that  no  work  was  to  be  expected  from  them  on  that  day, 
their  all-night  feasting  insufficiently  slept  off.  Rickard 
then  issued  a  formal  warning  to  all  the  tribes. 

The  white  men  were  being  held  antithetically  by  their 
habits  of  carousal ;  Rickard,  doling  out  the  weekly  wage, 
had  been  observing  the  pitiable  look  of  determination  on 
the  faces  of  the  volatile  hobo.  "The  look  of  'I  can  bear 
no  more ;  I  shall  move  on/  *' 

"Poor  devils!"  he  exclaimed  to  MacLean  as  Number 
Ten,  the  hobo  without  a  name,  shuffled  out,  bearing  his 
money  in  his  hand  and  a  farewell  leer  on  his  face.  His 
number,  bound  by  a  circle,  his  mark  and  title,  decorated 
each  bridge  and  pier,  so  his  boast  ran,  between  New  Or 
leans  and  San  Francisco,  and  then  again,  New  York. 
He  was  on  his  second  round,  and  he  had  never  bought  a 
ticket  in  his  life. 

"Poor  devils,"  he  repeated  as  the  desert's  perspective 
claimed  the  tramp.  "They  always  think  that  they  are 
not  coming  back.  It's  a  mean  trick  we  play  on  them." 

"What's  the  trick?"  queried  MacLean  absently,  who 
was  thinking  of  Innes  Hardin.  He  had  seen  her  on  the 
river  with  his  chief  the  evening  before ;  and  the  flash  of 


A    SUNDAY    SPECTACLE  357 

betrayal  from  the  eyes  of  Rickard,  the  girl's  shy 
quenched  gleam  of  surrender,  had  been  a  shock  to  him. 
Until  that  instant,  he  had  thought  she  lined  up  with  the 
rest  of  the  Hardins  in  hating  Rickard.  So  that  was  what 
had  been  going  on  under  his  nose!  It  looked  settled  to 
him ;  he  would  not  have  believed  that  no  word  had  been 
spoken. 

He  had  wondered  since  what  variety  of  fool  he  had 
been  making  of  himself.  Trying  to  oust  a  man  like 
Rickard — a  man.  That  was  the  particular  sting.  He 
was  reproaching  himself  for  bloodlessness  as  he  counted 
out  moneys  for  his  chief  that  afternoon.  Surely,  had  he 
any  spirit,  his  disappointment  would  have  flared  into 
bitter  enmity  against  the  man  who  had  stolen  what  he 
was  coveting.  For  Innes  Hardin  was  a  queen !  He  had 
never  seen  any  one  like  her.  Queer,  he  could  not  make 
himself  hate  Rickard.  Something  must  be  wrong  with 
himself,  to  be  able  to  sit  there  in  the  old  familiar  way, 
without  bitterness  in  his  heart. 

"They  think  they  are  free  men ;  free  to  go  and  come. 
And  we  own  them,  body  and  soul.  They  might  as  well 
be  slaves  for  all  they  can  do." 

MacLean  frowned.  "I  don't  think  I  understand."  He 
put  aside  his  problem  for  a  while.  He  would  settle  that 
later. 

"Lord!  MacLean,  didn't  you  see  Ten's'  face?" 

Dimly,  MacLean  summoned  a  gaunt  heat-seared  vis 
age  ;  an  unshaven,  stubbled  face  of  leering  defiance.  "He 
won't  come  back  again." 

"But  he  will.  He's  got  to  come  back.  He  can't  get 
through  Yuma.  That's  the  trick.  We  have  the  screw  on 
them.  Yuma's  practised.  She  won't  let  a  man  with  a 
week's  wages  in  his  pockets  slip  through  her  talons. 


358  THE   RIVER 

They  all  mean  to  go.  Lord!  I  see  it  in  each  of  their 
faces  as  they  come  in  here.  As  I  pay  them  off,  their 
eyes  say:  Tve  got  enough  to  be  quit  of  you  with  your 
hell-hole.  You  can  go  to  the  devil  for  all  the  work  you'll 
get  out  of  me.'  They  don't  say  it  because  they're  afraid, 
not  of  me,  but  of  Yuma.  They're  afraid  of  Yuma.  And 
when  she's  sucked  them  dry,  they  slink  back  here  for  one 
more  week  of  it." 

MacLean  drew,  in  his  lip,  frowning  at  the  memory  of 
the  stubbled  face  as  it  had  glared  at  Rickard. 

"You  remember  Jack,  the  hobo?" 

"Arnica  Jack  ?"  In  spite  of  his  resolution  to  be  miser 
able,  MacLean  laughed.  The  hobo's  weak  ever-turning 
ankles  made  him  the  butt  of  the  hobo  camp.  A  bottle  of 
arnica  in  his  coat  pocket,  the  insidious  smell  of  the  stuff 
which  clung  to  his  clothes,  had  drawn  the  inevitable  so 
briquet. 

"He  didn't  come  in  to-day.  Poor  devil!  He's  trying 
to  stick  it  out,  and  not  draw  his  wages.  You  run  a 
chance  of  being  put  off  in  the  heart  of  the  desert  when 
you  ride  out  on  a  brake-beam  from  Yuma.  You've  got 
to  have  a  little  'dough'  in  your  pocket  to  wheedle  a  man 
with  a  team,  or  a  soft-hearted  brakeman.  Else  it's  death. 
We've  got  it  on  them,  a  dead  sure^cinch."  Ofo  i^  (\&/U 

"Why  haven't  I  seen  any  of  this?"  demanded  Mac- 
Lean,  sitting  up,  very  red. 

"It's  not  on  the  surface.  They  go  out  swaggering 
Sunday;  they  come  back  cringing  Monday.  That's  all 
there  is  to  it.  But  the  situation  with  the  Indians  is  more 
serious.  They're  getting  liquor  in  here,  some  way,  the 
Lord  only  knows  how.  Maybe  Coronel  is  right;  he  de 
clares  they  are  simply  gorged  with  food,  dead  from  their 
stuffed  orgies.  Anyway,  they're  not  fit  for  burning  Mon- 


A   SUNDAY    SPECTACLE  359 

day  morning.  I've  just  sent  them  word  by  Coronel  that 
it's  got  to  quit,  or  they  do." 

"Suppose  they  do?"  MacLean  was  startled.  Not  an 
Indian  could  be  spared  at  that  stage  of  the  game. 

"Bluff !"  Rickard  got  up.  "It's  caught  white  men  be 
fore  this.  They  won't  take  the  chance  of  losing  that 
money.  I'm  off  now  to  the  Crossing.  There's  a  hitch 
at  the  concrete  gate.  I'll  be  back  this  afternoon.  I'll 
leave  you  in  charge  here." 

"I'll  hold  down  your  seat."  He  did  not  remember  his 
lagging  enmity  until  Rickard's  dancing  step  had  carried 
him  out  of  sight.  MacLean  spent  an  hour  unraveling 
the  puzzle  of  it.  If  a  man  really  loves  a  woman, — his 
question  hurled  a  doubt  at  the  integrity  of  his  affection. 
Stoutly,  he  defended  that.  Yet,  he  should  hate  Rickard. 
His  veins  must  run  ice-water.  An  Ogilvie  sort  of  man  he 
was! 

The  next  morning,  Wooster  broke  into  the  ramada 
where  MacLean  sat  clicking  his  typewriter. 

"Where's  Casey?" 

"Gone  to  the  Crossing.    Anything  up  ?" 

"Everything's  up."  Wooster  flung  his  hat  on  the  table. 
He  stood,  legs  wide  apart,  his  hands  thrust  into  his 
pockets,  looking  down  on  Rickard's  secretary.  "He's 
done  it  now.  Sent  some  all-fired,  independent  kinder 
garten  orders  to  the  Indians.  Says  they  have  to  be  in 
bed  by  ten  o'clock,  or  some  such  hour  on  Saturday  and 
Sunday  nights.  Indians  won't  stand  that!  Any  tender 
foot  ought  to  know  that.  At  this  stage  of  the  game, 
when  we  can't  afford  to  lose  a  man.  It's  a  strike,  their 
answer.  That's  what  his  monkeying  has  brought  down 
on  us." 

"They're  not  going  to  quit  ?" 


36o  THE   RIVER 

"They've  sent  word  they  won't  work  on  Mondays, 
and  they  will  go  to  bed  when  they  choose  Saturday 
night.  Losing  one  day  a  week!  We  can't  stand  for 
that." 

"That's  not  so  bad."  MacLean  was  relieved.  "I 
thought  they  were  all  going.  He'll  find  a  way  out." 
He  remembered  then  that  he  was  speaking  of  his  rival. 
This  was  an  opportunity  to  put  him  in  the  wrong.  In 
stead  he  was  flaming  to  partizanship.  No  backbone ! 
He  found  himself  taking  the  side  of  the  man  he  should 
be  hating.  "He's  no  man's  goat."  Only  sense  of  jus 
tice,  this ! 

"Luck's  been  playing  into  his  hands,"  spat  Wooster. 
"But  this  will  show  him  up.  This'll  show  Marshall  his 
pet  clerk.  Tell  Casey  there'll  be  no  Indians  to-morrow." 
He  sputtered  angrily  out  of  the  office. 

Rickard  seemed  pleased  when  MacLean  made  the  an 
nouncement  a  few  hours  later.  "Good!  Now,  we 
have  something  to  work  on." 

"You  are  losing  the  work  of  five  hundred  men  for  one 
day  a  week,"  urged  MacLean,  observing  him  as  curiously 
as  though  he  were  a  stranger. 

"We  had  already  lost  them.  They  have  not  given  us 
a  day's  work  on  Mondays  for  weeks  past,  and  we've  had 
to  give  them  a  full  week's  pay.  You  can't  deduct  for 
lazy  work,  not  unless  you've  an  overseer  for  each  man." 

His  secretary  was  weighing  him.  "What  do  you  in 
tend  to  do  about  it?" 

"Call  their  bluff,"  grinned  Casey,  showing  teeth  to 
bacco  had  not  had  a  chance  to  spoil.  "Boycott  them." 
He  was  at  his  table,  already,  writing.  He  had  forgotten 
to  remove  his  duster  or  his  hat.  He  was  unconscious 
of  his  secretary's  new  appraisement. 


A    SUNDAY    SPECTACLE  361 

"But  you  can't  afford  to  take  the  chance — "  began 
MacLean,  forcing  a  tepid  hostility. 

"Oh,  can't  I?"  His  tone  suggested,  "You're  playing 
on  the  track,  kid." 

Reddening,  the  boy  persisted.  "But  the  others — the 
engineers,  can  you  afford  to  ?  Suppose  you  lose  ?" 

Rickard  threw  down  his  pen.  "I've  got  to  have  work 
ers,  not  dabbers !  If  I'm  to  lose  the  Indians,  the  sooner 
I  know  it  the  better.  I  don't  want  to  know  what  the 
others  think.  I've  got  to  go  straight  ahead.  Don't 
think  I've  not  seen  their  faces.  Take  this  note  to  Woos- 
ter.  Tell  him  to  take  Coronel  and  see  Forestier." 

On  his  way,  MacLean  felt  like  the  match  that  is  to 
set  off  a  charge  of  dynamite.  Wooster  would  go  straight 
up  in  the  air.  Those  Hardin  men  would  make  an  uproar 
that  would  be  heard  at  Yuma ! 

He  found  Wooster  at  the  river-bank,  with  Tom  Har 
din.  The  two  men  were  watching  a  pile-driver  set  a 
rebellious  pile  for  the  new  trestles.  Two  new  trestles 
were  to  supplement  the  one  which  had  been  bent  out  of 
line  by  the  weight  of  settling  drift.  The  pile-driver  had 
no  Sabbath,  now.  The  piles  must  be  placed  before  rock 
could  be  poured  between.  Marshall's  plan  was  being 
followed,  though  jeered  at  by  Reclamation  men  and  the 
engineers  of  the  D.  R.  Company. 

"Stop  the  mattress  weaving  and  dump  like  hell !"  had 
been  his  orders. 

No  one  believed  that  the  soft  silt  bottom  of  the  river 
which  cut  out  like  salt  would  hold  a  pour  of  rock.  Mar 
shall,  aided  by  Rickard,  schemed  to  fight  power  with 
haste.  Faster  than  the  current  could  wash  it  down 
stream,  the  crews  would  rain  gravel  and  rock  on  to  the 
treacherous  river-bed. 


•362!  THE   RIVER 

"And  there's  always  tHe  concrete  gate  when  every 
thing  else  fails,"  Marshall  was  fond  of  repeating  when 
he  saw  polite  incredulity  in  opposing  faces. 

"Boycott  the  Indians,  well,  I'm  blowed,"  the  beady 
eyes  sparked  at  Hardin.  "Now,  he's  cut  his  own  throat." 

"By  the  eternal!"  swore  Hardin.  MacLean  left  the 
two  engineers  matching  oaths.  "If  he  wins  out  on  this !" 
he  was  speculating  as  he  made  his  way  back  to  his  copy 
ing,  "I'll  back  him  against  anything.  Wonder  how  he 
feels,  inside,  about  it?  I  know  just  how  I'd  feel.  Scared 
stiff." 

There  was  an  ominous  quiet  the  next  day.  Not  an 
Indian  offered  to  work  at  the  river.  A  few  stolid  bucks 
came  to  their  tasks  on  Tuesday  morning;  they  were 
told  by  Rickard  himself  that  there  was  no  work  for 
them.  Rickard  appeared  ignorant  of  the  antagonism  of 
the  engineers. 

\Yooster  watched  the  Yumas  carry  their  stormy  faces 
back  to  their  camp. 

"Garl  darn  it,"  he  cried.  "There's  his  chance,  and 
he  lost  it." 

An  unfathered  rumor  started  that  Rickard  was  in  with 
the  Reclamation  Service  men;  that  he  wanted  the  work 
to  fail;  to  be  adopted  by  the  Service.  MacLean  broke 
a  lance  or  two  against  the  absurd  slander.  He  was  mak 
ing  the  discovery  that  a  man's  friendship  for  a  man  may 
be  deeper  than  a  man's  love  for  a  woman.  It  was  up 
setting  all  his  preconceived  notions.  He  was  backing  his 
hot  young  will  for  Rickard  to  win  out.  He  got  to  blow- 
point  that  evening  with  Bodefeldt.  He  avoided  Wooster 
and  Silent  and  Hardin.  It  inflamed  his  boyish  loyalty 
to  find  that  he  was  losing  his  old  friendships.  He  was 
a  Rickard  man.  He  was  made  to  feel  the  reproach  of  it. 


A   SUNDAY    SPECTACLE  363 

Wednesday  dawned  dully.  Not  an  Indian  reported. 
Squatting  in  their  camp,  they  listened  to  "Fig  Tree  Jim" 
and  Joe  Apache,  the  insurgent  bucks.  Coronel  passed 
from  camp  to  camp,  his  advice  unpopular.  "They  would 
get  their  pay,  and  stay  out  Monday  beside.  Joe  Apache 
said  so." 

Scouts  sent  out  to  watch  the  work  on  the  river  re 
ported  it  was  crippled.  The  white  man  would  be  send 
ing  for  the  Indian  soon.  The  waiting  braves  sat  on  their 
haunches,  grinning  and  smoking  their  pipes. 

On  Thursday,  Forestier,  who  must  feed  his  reserva 
tion  Indians  while  away  from  the  reservation,  grew 
anxious.  He  tried  arguments  with  the  Indians ;  then 
with  Rickard.  That  engineer  had  just  been  closeted  with 
Marshall  who  was  taking  a  swift  run  out  to  Tucson  that 
day.  Rickard  would  not  budge  from  his  position.  The 
Indians  must  work  Monday,  or  not  at  all.  He  refused 
to  discuss  the  situation  with  Forestier,  or  any  one.  He 
was  apparently  engrossed  with  the  setting  of  the  piles. 
That  the  brush-cutting  was  held  up,  the  work  on  the 
levee  halted,  he  waived  as  unimportant.  The  look  of 
the  Hardin  faction  was  getting  on  his  nerves;  he  was 
learning  to  swear  and  smile  at  the  same  time. 

Marshall  carried  a  worried  face  from  the  Heading. 
He  must  back  his  man  in  this !  And  he  never  forgot  the 
levee.  Still,  if  he  should  fail —  He  determined  to 
arrange  to  pull  some  track  crews  from  Salton  and  the 
West  Coast  to  send  to  Rickard  for  emergency. 

Saturday  night,  the  camp  went  gloomily  to  bed.  On 
the  Indian  side,  there  was  no  revel,  no  feasting  or  danc 
ing.  Forestier  was  closeted  with  Rickard. 

"I'll  have  to  take  them  back  to  their  reservations," 
he  said.  "I  can't  keep  them  here,  we  can't  afford  to. 


364  THE   RIVER 

They've  got  to  be  fed.  You  know,  Rickard,  the  howl 
that'd  be  raised  if  the  thing  gets  out  twisted.  Senti 
mental,  the  Indian  feeling  is,  you  and  I  know  that,  but 
it'd  be  uncomfortable.  The  man  who'd  kick  an  Indian 
out  of  his  back  yard  would  go  to  Washington  to  start 
up  a  scandal  if  any  blamed  buck  says  he  was  starving." 

"Hold  them  here  a  few  days,  you  can,"  Rickard  was 
worried,  himself.  Forestier  could  not  keep  them  out  of 
their  reservations  if  they  were  not  earning  money.  He 
knew  that.  Already,  he  was  needing  them  badly  at  the 
river.  Something,  will  or  reason,  he  was  not  sure,  would 
not  let  him  give  in. 

"Just  two  or  three  days,"  he  urged  Forestier. 

"I'll  try."  The  face  of  the  Indian  agent  was  not  re 
assuring.  Rickard  did  not  turn  in  until  after  midnight, 
planning  alternatives.  He  was  sleeping  hard  when  Mac- 
Lean,  at  dawn,  dashed  into  his  tent. 

"Quick,  what  does  this  mean?" 

Rickard  was  scrambling  into  his  clothes.  It  was  the 
river,  of  course.  The  trestles  had  been  carried  out?  He 
was  into  his  khaki  trousers  and  slippers.  He  made  a 
dive  into  his  shirt  as  he  followed  MacLean  to  the  tent 
door,  his  head  working  through  the  bag  of  cloth  to  the 
light-well  at  the  top. 

"Look  over  there,"  cried  MacLean.  "What  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

It  was  a  splendid  spectacle,  and  staged  superbly.  For 
background,  the  sharp-edged  mountains  flushing  to  pinks 
and  purples  against  a  one-hued  sky;  the  river-growth 
of  the  old  channel  uniting  them,  blotting  out  miles  of 
desert,  into  a  flat  scene.  On  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
New  River,  five  hundred  strong,  lined  up  formidably, 
their  faces  grotesque  and  ferocious  with  paint,  were  the 


A   SUNDAY    SPECTACLE  365 

seven  tribes.  The  sun's  rays  glinted  up  from  their  fire 
arms,  shot-guns,  revolvers,  into  a  motley  of  defiance! 
Cocopahs,  with  streaming  hair,  blanketed  Navajos, 
short-haired  Pimas,  those  in  front  reining  in  their  silent 
pinto  ponies,  and  all  motionless,  silent  in  that  early 
morning  light. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  whispered  MacLean.  Rickard 
did  not  answer.  He  had  one  nauseous  instant,  as  he 
looked  toward  Innes'  tent.  Then  he  noticed  a  movement 
in  the  throng;  he  saw  it  was  the  pressing  of  newcomers 
toward  the  front  of  the  brilliant  mass.  Brown  naked 
chests  gleamed  with  wet  paint.  Black  shirts,  striped 
with  white  and  yellow  and  red,  made  a  strange  serpent 
effect.  Ropes  of  beads  weighted  down  their  shoulders; 
ribbons  streamed  from  their  arms. 

The  barbaric  spectacle  stood  immovable.  The  stir 
came  from  the  near  bank.  The  camp  was  rising.  From 
each  tent,  a  face  thrust  out  casually,  stayed  to  watch, 
startled.  The  unsettled  condition  of  the  days  past  had 
prepared  the  stage  for  some  climax ;  the  surprise  loomed 
savage  and  threatening. 

MacLean  was  watching  Rickard's  face.  The  manager 
had  drawn  back  into  the  shadow  of  his  tent.  He  ex 
pected  to  see  them  wheel  and  ride  out  of  camp;  this 
then  their  ultimatum.  He  did  not  fear  worse  trouble, 
now  that  nauseous  half-second  was  over  ;  they  had  too 
much  to  lose ;  there  was  no  one  to  organize,  to  mobilize. 
Still,  they  were  Indians — he  was  trying  to  make  out 
their  faces;  the  whites,  surprised — the  squads  divided, 
at  the  levee,  up  at  the  Crossing! 

MacLean  had  turned  to  watch  the  Indians;  he  heard 
a  chuckle.  Rickard  broke  into  laughter. 

"See,  the  white  horse,  no,  in  front — " 


366  THE   RIVER 

"By  jove,"  MacLean  slapped  his  thigh.  "Coronel! 
They  had  me  buffaloed.  What  do  you  think  it  is?" 

Rickard  stepped  out  into  the  wash  of  morning  air, 
and  waved  a  solemn  salute  across  the  river.  Gravely, 
it  was  returned  by  Coronel. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  demanded  MacLean. 

"It  means  we've  won,"  chuckled  his  chief,  coming 
back  into  his  tent. 

"If  you  haven't  the  best — luck,"  substituted  MacLean, 
self-consciously. 

"If  you  say  luck'  to  me,"  grinned  Rickard,  "I'll  cane 
you!  Get  out,  I  want  my  shower.  They'll  be  coming 
over  here  now." 

An  hour  later,  after  every  one  in  camp  had  looked 
and  speculated  and  smiled,  the  first  thrill  passed,  at  the 
massed  Indians,  Coronel  led  in  a  picked  group  of  the 
tribes.  If  the  white  chief  would  recall  the  boycott,  the 
Monday  strike  was  over.  The  white  man's  silver  had 
won. 

Rickard  shook  hands  all  around,  and  commended 
Coronel  privately.  "You'll  get  a  present  for  this."  The 
wrinkled  face  was  majestically  inscrutable. 

"They  could  never  do  it  like  white  men,"  commented 
Rickard  after  they  had  left  the  ramada.  "They  must 
get  up  that  bit  of  bravado;  they  are  like  children — " 
He  never  finished  his  sentence.  He  was  thinking  of  a 
little  white  tent,  and  an  instant  of  nausea  when  he  had 
first  seen  those  waiting  Indians. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  WHITE   NIGHT 

ORD,  I'm  tired,"  groaned  Rickard,  stumbling  into 
mp,  wet  to  the  skin.  "Don't  you  say  letters  to 
me,  Mac.  I'm  going  to  bed.  Tell  Ling  I  don't  want  any 
dinner.  He'll  want  to  fuss  up  something.  I  don't  want 
to  see  food." 

As  he  moved  on  to  his  tent,  MacLean  noted  a  dragging 
step  and  a  feverish  face.  But  his  anxiety  was  dwarfed 
by  Ling's.  The  Chinese  immediately  invaded  Rickard's 
tent,  leaving  the  dishing  of  the  dinner  to  Godfrey.  Ling 
found  Rickard,  burning  with  fever,  stripping  for  a  cold 
shower. 

"Velly  bad,  velly  bad,"  he  exclaimed.  "Hi,  there,  you 
stop,"  as  Rickard  went  on  stripping.  "Hi,  there,  no 
cold  watel.  Me  ketchem  hot  watel." 

"  'Hot  watel' !    I'm  burning  up  now !" 

"Here  you,  get  into  bed,  hop.  I  ketchem  warm  watel. 
Cold  watel  no  good,  make  velly  sick.  Hop." 

Rickard  hopped.  He  was  worn  to  the  point  of  yield 
ing  to  any  authoritative  voice.  The  day  had  been  ex 
hausting.  His  eyes  closed  with  weariness.  He  did  not 
watch  Ling's  new  captaincy.  The  Chinese,  soft- 
slippered,  pattered  around  the  tent,  and  out.  The  sheets 
felt  cool  and  comfortable.  Rickard  had  a  sensation  of 
dropping,  falling  into  oblivion. 

367 


\ 


368  THE   RIVER 

The  day,  confused  and  jumbled,  burned  across  his 
eyeballs;  a  turmoil  of  bustle  and  hurry  of  insurrection. 
He  had  made  a  swift  stand  against  that.  He  was  to 
be  minded  to  the  last  man-  jack  of  them,  or  any  one 
would  go,  his  threat  including  the  engineers,  Silent, 
Irish,  Wooster,  Hardin  himself.  This  was  no  time  for 
factions,  for  leader  feeling.  They  knew  he  meant  busi 
ness  ;  perhaps  the  tussle  with  the  Indians  had  had  good 
effect.  But  he  had  lost  his  temper  with  Hardin  and 
Wooster;  he  didn't  feel  pleased  with  himself.  It  left  a 
sting  of  self-discontent  which  pulled  him  back  from  the 
rest  into  which  he  was  sinking.  A  man  can  enjoy  the 
mastery  over  other  men  if  he  gets  out  of  it  with  self- 
control.  It  seemed  worse  now  than  when  he  had  been 
in  the  clamor  and  the  contention  of  the  day.  Tossing 
feverishly  on  his  bed,  the  day's  perspective  gave  no  order, 
no  progress.  His  body  was  hot,  his  head  on  fire. 

His  grouch  focused  on  Wooster.  "The  gall  of  him!" 
He  recalled  the  snapping  black  beads  of  eyes  as  they 
resented  Rickard's  criticism  of  his  handling  of  the  rock. 

"Who's  superintendent  here?"  had  growled  Wooster. 

"It  is  a  pity  that  I  must  superintend  your  superin- 
tending,"  had  been  his  answer.  "You  will  obey  my 
orders,  or  quit." 

"He's  had  an  ax  for  me  ever  since  I  came  ;  he's  been 
sore  ever  since  I  won  over  the  Indians.  He  thought 
he  was  going  to  see  me  crushed.  The  whole  camp  would 
have  crowed  had  those  Indians  marched  out.  Lord, 
what  a  head  I  have!" 

Ling  came  in,  towing  a  portable  tub  of  galvanized  tin, 
a  bucket  of  steaming  water  in  his  other  hand. 

"If  you  think  you're  going  to  get  me  into  that,  you're 
mistaken,"  Rickard  raised  his  head  to  scowl  at  the 


THE   WHITE    NIGHT  369 

bucket.  Ling  had  the  tact  not  to  answer.  Quiet  as  a 
cat,  he  placed  the  tub  by  the  bedside,  and  emptied  the 
bucket.  Pattering  to  the  door,  he  took  from  an  unseen 
waiting  hand,  another  pail  of  rising  steam,  and  a  large 
yellow-papered  tin  of  mustard. 

"You  needn't  think  you're  going  to  boss  me,"  Rickard 
flared  with  impotent  resistance.  "Mustard!  I've  not 
taken  that  since  I  was  a  small  boy.  I'm  not  going  to 
put  my  foot  in  it,  do  you  hear?" 

Ling  would  not  hear.  He  was  moving  noiselessly 
around  the  tent,  blind  and  deaf  to  scowls  and  grumbling. 
Rickard  watched  him  collect  blankets  and  towels.  His 
rebellion  was  deflected.  What  an  amusing  race  it  was, 
at  cooking,  nursing  or  diplomacy  equally  facile ! 

"Who  was  that  outside  the  door?"  The  hand  sud 
denly  reassured  to  him. 

"Mlister  Godfley."  Ling,  the  laconic,  went  on  with 
his  preparations.  When  he  had  finished,  he  stopped 
suddenly  in  front  of  the  bed.  Rickard  was  off  guard. 

"Here  you,  ketchem  bath.     Hop." 

"A  bath,  get  in  that?  Not  on  your  life,"  defied  Rick 
ard.  But  he  knew  he  was  as  putty  in  Ling's  hands. 

"Hop,  velly  quick,"  commanded  Ling. 

As  Rickard  did  not  hop,  he  was  pulled  out  of  bed 
by  soft  Chinese,  work-wrinkled  fingers.  After  a  sputter 
ing  resistance  to  the  sting  of  the  hot  mustard,  he  lay 
back,  an  unexpected  relaxation  meeting  his  supineness. 
The  first  sting  over,  the  pain  began  to  melt  from  his 
bones,  from  his  strained  aching  muscles.  His  irritability 
began  to  dissolve.  He  decided  to  forgive  Ling,  who 
had  left  the  tent. 

His  eyes  closed.  He  caught  an  instant's  doze.  Ling's 
entrance  wakened  him. 


370  THE   RIVER 

"This  salad  water's  all  right!  I'm  going  to  stay  here 
all  night." 

The  Chinese  had  a  hot,  pungent  smelling  drink  in  his 
hand. 

"Oh,  say/'  groaned  the  engineer.  "I  don't  have  to 
drink  that !" 

"All  lite  tamale,"  replied  the  calm  doctor.  "Hi,  there, 
get  up.  Hop.  Pletty  quick.  Take  heap  cold.  Velly 
bad." 

In  bed,  Ling's  hot  drink  inside  him,  the  day  with  its 
irritations  fell  away.  He  could  see  now  the  step  ahead 
that  had  been  taken ;  the  last  trestle  was  done ;  the  rock- 
pouring  well  on;  he  called  that  going  some!  He  felt 
pleasantly  languid,  but  not  yet  sleepy.  His  thought 
wandered  over  the  resting  camp.  The  Delta  was  no 
longer  entertaining;  the  days  were  too  strenuous  for 
that.  Frank  Godfrey  must  be  finding  them  dull.  And 
then  Innes  Hardin  came  to  him. 

Not  herself,  but  as  a  soft  little  thought  which  came 
creeping  around  the  corner  of  his  dreams.  She  had 
been  there,  of  course,  all  day,  tucked  away  in  his  mind, 
as  though  in  his  home  waiting  for  him  to  come  back  to 
her,  weary  from  the  pricks  of  the  day.  The  way  he 
would  come  home  to  her,  please  God,  some  day.  Not 
bearing  his  burdens  to  her,  he  did  not  believe  in  that, 
but  asking  her  diversions.  Perhaps  she  would  sing  to 
him,  or  play  to  him,  little  tender  tunes  he  could  under 
stand.  He  had  never  had  time  to  keep  up  with  the  new 
fangled  music  which  sounded  to  his  ear  like  a  distinct 
endeavor  to  be  unmusical  and  bizarre.  All  the  melodies 
have  been  used  up ;  Mozart  and  those  old  boys  had 
hogged  them.  The  moderns  have  had  to  invent  a  school 


THE   WHITE    NIGHT  371 

of  odd  discords  and  queer  rhythms.  Innes  would  tell 
him  about  that!  Some  day!  Contentment  spread  her 
soft  wings  over  him.  When  Ling  came  stealing  back, 
his  patient  was  asleep. 

The  tent  was  a  wash  of  white  light  when  he  woke; 
the  moon  was  filtering  through  the  white  canvas ;  a  band 
of  pale  radiance  was  streaming  through  the  screen  door. 
Rickard  wakened  as  to  a  call.  What  had  startled  him? 
He  had  been  sleeping  heavily,  the  deep  sleep  that  knows 
no  dreaming.  He  listened,  raising  himself  by  his  elbow. 
From  a  distance,  a  sweet  high  voice,  unreal  in  its  pitch 
and  thrilling  quality,  came  to  him.  It  pieced  on  to  his 
last  waking  thought.  For  an  instant,  he  thought  it  was 
Innes. 

Awake,  the  rhythmic  beat  coming  clear  and  sweet  to 
him,  he  knew  it  was  Godfrey;  Godfrey,  somewhere  on 
the  levee,  singing  by  the  river. 

"What  a  voice  that  fellow  has!"  He  wondered  what 
it  was  he  was  singing.  "The  quality  of  the  angels,  and 
the  lure  of  the  sirens  besides!" 

There  was  a  haunting  thrill  to  the  air ;  something  he 
should  remember.  He  used  to  be  able  to  carry  tunes; 
was  it  too  late,  he  wondered,  to  sharpen  his  musical 
memory  ?  The  soft  side  of  life  he  had  left  alone,  music, 
ease,  poetry;  they  went  with  women,  and  his  swift 
marching  life  had  had  no  time  for  them.  Women  and 
little  children.  Was  it  too  late  to  begin  ?  Had  he  worked 
too  long  to  learn  to  play  ?  What  was  that  tune  Godfrey 
was  singing  now  ?  He  knew  that ;  it  was  about  the  age 
of  seventeen.  It  brought  him  again  to  Innes  Hardin. 
He  pulled  aside  his  curtain  which  hung  over  the  screen 
ing  of  his  tent  and  looked  out  into  a  moon-flooded  world. 


372  THE   RIVER 

The  stars  were  dimmed,  thrust  into  their  real  distances 
by  the  world's  white  courier.  Rickard's  eyes  fell  on  a 
little  tent  over  yonder,  a  white  shrine.  "White  as  that 
fine  sweet  soul  of  hers !" 

Wandering  into  the  night,  Godfrey  passed  down  the 
river,  singing  alone.  His  voice,  the  footlights,  the  listen 
ing  great  audiences  were  calling  to  him.  To  him,  the 
moon-flooded  levee,  the  glistening  water,  made  a  star- 
set  scene.  He  was  treading  the  boards,  the  rushing 
waters  by  the  bank  gave  the  orchestration  for  his  mel 
ody — La  Donna  e  Mobile.  He  began  it  to  Gerty  Har- 
din;  she  would  hear  it  in  her  tent;  she  would  take  it  as 
the  tender  reproach  he  had  teased  her  with  that  after 
noon  in  the  ramada. 

He  forgot  her  as  he  sang,  the  footlights,  the  great 
audiences  claiming  him.  They  called  him  back!  "Bis! 
bis!"  He  gave  it  again.  Still,  they  called  for  him.  He 
must  come  back!  He  gave  them  for  encore  a  ballad 
long  forgotten ;  he  had  pulled  it  back  from  the  cobwebs 
of  two  decades ;  he  had  made  it  his  own ;  reviving  it  to 
a  larger  popularity;  they  were  selling  records  of  it  now 
on  Broadway.  In  South  America,  in  Mexico,  in  lonely 
ranches,  distant  barrancas,  the  far-spread  audiences 
listened  to  his  imprisoned  voice,  by  modern  magic  re 
leased  to  them. 

Detached,  as  an  observer  he  worshiped  his  wonder 
ful  gift;  impersonally,  it  was  guarded;  he  could  speak 
of  it  without  vanity.  Pity,  the  fellow  who  wrote  the 
simple  air  was  dead ;  it  was  enriching  publishers ;  those 
"canned  music  people!" 

The  audience,  South  American,  English,  Mexican,  was 
calling.  Australia,  now,  was  clapping  her  hands.  That 
last  verse  again. 


THE   WHITE   NIGHT  373 

"But,  my  darling,  you  will  be, 
Ever  young  and  fair  to  me." 

The  hush,  that  wonderful  hush  which  always  greets 
that  ballad,  falls  on  the  house  again. 

It  came,  the  soaring  voice,  to  Tom  Hardin,  outside 
Gerty's  tent  on  his  lonely  cot.  He  knew  that  song.  He 
had  shouted  it  with  the  fellows  at  college,  passing 
through  the  Lawrence  streets  at  night.  The  words  came 
running  back  to  meet  him.  "Woman  is  changeable."  Had 
he  sensed  the  words  then?  "Woman  is  changeable." 
All  of  them  then,  not  alone  Gerty.  For  she  had  loved 
him  once,  he  had  seen  her  face  flushing  answer  into  his, 
Changed  altogether,  the  changeable.  Disdained  by  his 
wife,  a  pretty  figure  a  man  cuts !  If  his  wife  can't  stand 
him,  who  can?  He  wasn't  good  enough  for  her.  He 
was  rough.  His  life  had  kept  him  from  fitting  himself 
to  her  taste.  She  needed  people  who  could  talk  like 
Rickard,  sing  like  Godfrey.  People,  other  people,  might 
misconstrue  her  preferences.  He  knew  they  were  not 
flirtations ;  she  needed  her  kind.  She  would  always  keep 
straight ;  she  was  straight  as  a  whip.  Life  was  as  hard 
for  her  as  it  was  for  him ;  he  could  feel  sorry  for  her ; 
his  pity  was  divided  between  the  two  of  them,  the  hus 
band,  the  wife,  both  lonely  in  their  own  way. 

Then  his  bitterness  softened  to  the  new  air  Godfrey 
was  singing.  He  could  hear  his  mother's  voice  humming 
it  over  her  task  in  her  rough  pioneer  kitchen.  He  lay 
quite  still  listening,  life  crowding  before  his  open  eyes, 
No  use  coaxing  sleep,  with  the  moon  making  day  of  the 
night.  His  memory  was  a  harp,  and  Godfrey  was  pluck 
ing  at  the  strings. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  canvas  walls,  Gerty  Hardin 


374  THE   RIVER 

lay  listening  to  the  message  meant  for  her.  The  fickle 
sex,  he  had  called  hers ;  no  constancy  in  woman,  he  had 
declared,  fondling  her  hair.  He  had  tried  to  coax  her 
into  pledges,  pledges  which  were  also  disavowals  to  the 
man  outside. 

Silver  threads!  Age  shuddered  at  her  threshold. 
She  would  not  get  old,  oh,  why  would  he  not  sing  some 
thing  else?  She  hated  that  song.  Cruel,  life  had  been 
to  her,  none  of  its  promises  had  been  kept.  To  be  happy, 
why,  that  was  a  human's  birthright;  grab  it,  that  was 
her  creed !  Before  you  get  old,  before  the  pretty  face 
wrinkles,  and  men  forget  to  look  at  you  with  the  wor 
ship  beauty  brings.  She  wanted  to  die  before  that 
happened — she  would  push  age  away  from  her — she 
could.  But  before  that  awful  time  which  offered  no 
alleviation,  she  must  be  happy,  she  must  taste  of  success, 
hear  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  left  behind.  When  God 
made  the  world,  He  did  not  make  enough  happiness  to 
go  around ;  one  must  snatch  it  as  it  passed.  There  was 
a  chance  yet;  youth  had  not  gone.  He  was  singing  it 
to  her,  her  escape — 


"Darling,  you  will  be, 
Ever  young  and  fair  to  me. 


It  was  not  true.  The  song  was  a  lie.  He  would  not 
love  her  when  she  was  old.  Men  don't.  They  want 
roses  and  bright  eyes,  youth.  Cruel,  men  are.  But  she 
had  a  few  years  yet.  She  would  live  those  years,  not 
spend  them  with  regrets. 

She  had  a  wild  thought  of  running  out  to  him,  to  cry 
her  joy,  her  bitterness  in  his  arms!  He  was  waiting 


THE   WHITE   NIGHT  375 

for  her,  hoping  for  her  down  by  the  levee ;  his  love  was 
like  a  schoolboy's  in  its  eagerness.  But  the  sulky  figure 
of  Tom  guarded  her  door.  Tom  was  like  Innes,  always 
watching  her  with  distrust,  suspicion  in  his  eyes.  What 
ever  she  would  do,  they  would  have  driven  her  to  it. 
She  was  going  to  be  happy — to  be  happy  before  she  was 
old! 

Godfrey,  singing  to  Gerty  Hardin,  had  awakened  the 
camp.  Once  roused,  the  brilliant  night  made  sleep  im 
possible.  Innes,  in  her  tent,  too,  was  listening.  Once, 
in  her  childhood,  she  had  wakened  to  the  sound  of  near 
music,  sweet,  unearthly,  in  its  soaring  lightness,  now 
antiphonal,  now  in  unison.  To-night,  so  Godfrey's  song 
pierced  her  dreams,  and  brought  back  that  unreal  child 
ish  night,  another  white  night  such  as  this.  She  opened 
her  curtain  to  the  wide  spread  of  silvered  desert;  the 
moonlight  streamed  in  on  her  bed. 

"Darling,  you  will  be, 

Ever  young  and  fair  to  me !" 

So  that  is  the  miracle,  that  wild  rush  of  certain  feel 
ing!  Yesterday,  doubting,  to-morrow,  more  doubts — 
but  to-night,  the  song,  the  night  isolated  them,  herself 
and  Rickard,  into  a  world  of  their  own.  To-night,  it 
did  not  even  pain  her  that  he  had  been  the  lover  of  Gerty 
Hardin,  faithful  through  years,  as  Gerty  had  hinted,  to 
a  love  that  was  not  ever  to  be  rewarded ;  nor  that  it  had 
passed  to  her  so  lightly.  Accidental,  propinquitous, 
seemed  his  love  for  her.  Not  based  on  congeniality,  or 
knowledge  of  sympathies.  She  was  not  vocal  with  him 
— what  did  he  love  in  her  ?  A  trick  of  smile  or  speech  ? 


376  THE   RIVER 

Better  that,  even,  than  that  he  had  yielded,  simply,  to 
the  human  need  of  loving!  Even  that  did  not  have 
a  sting  for  her  this  night.  Life  with  him  on  any  terms 
she  wanted.  To-morrow,  the  proud  rebellions  might  re 
turn;  now,  she  could  see  the  risk  of  losing  him!  She 
had  not  the  trick  of  persuasion ;  only  one  way  she  knew ! 
When  he  was  her  own,  they  might  face  their  differences, 
then  kiss  them  away!  Daring,  then  witchery!  For 
she  wanted  to  charm  lier  husband;  that,  the  proudest 
conquest  of  all.  The  wonder  it  was  that  all  women 
could  not  see  it  that  way.  To  win  over  again,  to  con 
quer  against  commonplaceness,  against  satiety — to  be 
witch  one's  own ! 

Godfrey  was  returning  to  Australia's  clapping  hands. 
The  desert,  Gerty  Hardin,  were  forgotten  in  the  ardor  of 
his  singing.  To  pour  out  song  like  that,  to  make  a  world 
listen,  be  the  voice  that  summons  memory !  Such  a  night 
as  this  — "Tanto  amor — !" 

On  his  army  cot,  Wooster  stirred  restlessly  between 
his  coarse  cotton  sheets.  Something  was  disturbing  him. 
He  was  heavy  with  sleep.  But  something  was  the  matter 
with  the  night.  He  covered  his  ears,  but  the  irritation 
crept  through.  He  raised  his  head  from  the  pillow,  the 
small  snapping  eyes  accusing  the  unknown  disturber  of 
his  peace. 

"Those  Indians !"  he  muttered,  dragging  the  sheet  over 
his  ears.  "Drunk  again!" 

"Tanto  amor!"  Godfrey  was  looking  down  on  the 
river. 

Such  a  night !  It  poured  wine  into  the  veins  of  one ! 
Such  a  voice !  To  pour  it  out,  thrilling  himself  over  the 
call  of  it !  Touching  something,  what  was  it  he  touched  ? 


THE   WHITE    NIGHT  377 

That  gleam   of  moonlight  on  the   river,   footlights   of 
fairies.    Ah,  holy  night !    "  Tan  to  amor!" 

Caught  in  his  own  spell,  Godfrey  passed  down  the 
levee.  And  the  camp  slept  again.  But  even  the  dreams 
of  Wooster  were  of  love. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

GATHERING  on  the  bank  were  the  camp  groups  to 
watch  the  last  stand  of  the  river  against  the  rock 
bombardment.  The  reporters  from  the  outside,  pads 
and  pencils  in  hand,  were  there,  and  Brandon;  Molly 
Silent,  with  little  Jim  in  her  arms,  who  had  crept  down 
from  the  Crossing,  full  of  fears.  Out  there,  somewhere 
on  the  trestles,  on  one  of  those  rock  cars  was  her  Jim. 
She  sat  on  the  bank  by  Innes  and  Mrs.  Marshall,  who 
at  last  had  laid  aside  her  knitting.  Tony,  his  white  cap 
askew,  danced  from  group  to  group,  finding  poor  au 
diences.  Later,  he  forced  a  heartier  reception  when  he 
returned,  bearing  sandwiches  and  hard-boiled  eggs,  his 
Indian  "help"  carrying  a  pot  of  steaming  coffee. 

"That's  a  capital  idea,  Tony,"  commended  Rickard, 
stopping  for  a  snatch  of  lunch.  "Tell  Ling  to  do  the 
same;  here,  MacLean,  you  tell  him.  We'll  keep  coffee 
and  bread  and  beans  going  all  day.  A  lunch-counter 
on  the  bank."  He  was  off,  his  hands  full  of  sandwiches. 

A  great  wave  broke  into  an  obliterating  eruption  of 
spray.  A  cry  burst  from  Molly  Silent.  "Oh,  I  thought 
it  was  gone.  There's  Jim.  He's  on  the  car  that's  pull 
ing  in !" 

"Give  me  the  boy,"  Mrs.  Marshall  reached  out  her 
unpractised  arms.  "Run  down  and  speak  to  your  hus- 

378 


THE   BATTLE   IN    THE   NIGHT          379 

band."  She  shook  her  head  ominously  at  Innes  as  the 
mother  stumbled  heavily  down  the  bank.  "This  excite 
ment  is  bad  for  her.  Before  Christmas,  she  tells  me." 
She  held  the  little  body  close  to  hers.  Innes,  watching 
her  rapt  look,  felt  her  eyes  warm  up  with  tears. 

Molly  toddled  back,  radiant. 

"I  saw  him !"  she  glowed. 

"I  got  him  asleep !"  whispered  Mrs.  Marshall.  "Don't 
take  him;  you'll  awaken  him.  Isn't  he  looking  a  little 
pale?" 

There  was  a  fear  in  the  face  which  leaned  over  the 
sleeping  child.  "He's  not  right.  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter  with  him.  I'd  take  him  out,  but  I  can't  leave 
Jim — so  soon.  It  isn't  until  Christmas.  I'll  have  to 
go  then.  Do  you  think  he  looks  sickly?"  Her  anxious 
eyes  questioned  the  two  women. 

Heartily,  Innes  said  she  thought  he  was  looking1 
stronger. 

"Let  me  take  him  out,"  suggested  Mrs.  Marshall. 
"We'll  be  going  this  week.  I'll  take  the  best  of  care 
of  him;  there's  a  splendid  children's  doctor  in  Tucson." 

"Oh,  do !"  cried  Innes.  And  what  a  charity  for  Mrs. 
Marshall,  her  empty  arms  aching  for  what  they  that 
moment  held ! 

"Oh !"  cried  Molly,  pain  and  relief  in  her  tone. 

"Think  about  it,"  whispered  Mrs.  Marshall.  "You 
don't  have  to  tell  me  now." 

:  Molly  lifted  her  head  from  a  scrutiny  of  the  pallid 
baby  face  to  see  Mrs.  Hardin,  floating  by  in  her  crisp 
muslins.  A  few  feet  behind  stalked  Godfrey,  his  eyes 
on  the  pretty  figure  by  his  side.  Innes,  watching  too, 
turned  from  his  look,  abashed  as  though  she  had  been 
peering  through  a  locked  door. 


380  THE    RIVER 

Gaily,  with  a  fluttering  of  ruffles,  Gerty  established 
herself  on  the  bank,  a  trifle  out  of  hearing  distance. 
Innes  saw  her  raise  an  inviting  smile  to  the  Englishman 
who  stood  looking  uncertainly  from  her  to  the  river.  He 
dropped  beside  her  on  the  sand.  As  Innes  pulled  her 
eyes  away  from  them,  she  met  those  of  Molly  Silent, 
who  had  also  been  staring  at  Tom  Hardin's  wife. 

A  hard  little  smile  played  on  the  lips  accented  with 
Parisian  rouge.  The  blue  eyes  were  following  the  two 
men  who  were  directing  the  bombardment ;  the  childish 
expression  was  gone;  her  look  accused  life  of  having 
trifled  with  her.  But  they  would  see — 

"Don't  look  so  unhappy,  dearest,"  whispered  the  man 
at  her  side.  "I'm  going  to  make  you  happy,  dear!" 

She  flushed  a  brilliant,  finished  smile  at  him.  Yes, 
she  was  proud  of  him.  His  success  buoyed  her  faith 
in  her  destiny.  Everybody  knew  Godfrey;  his  voice 
had  subdued  whole  continents.  He  satisfied  her  sense 
of  romance,  or  would,  later,  when  she  was  away  from 
here,  a  dull  pain  pricking  at  her  deliberate  planning. 
She  was  tired,  tired  of  scheming,  planning;  unfair  it 
seemed  to  her  that  some  women  have  all  that  she  had 
had  to  struggle  for  tossed  into  their  careless  laps.  She 
was  proud.  She  could  not  be  a  nobody,  crushed  by 
humiliations  and  adversity.  She  had  not  brought  any 
of  his  trouble  on  Tom  Hardin.  It  was  he,  he  and  Rick- 
ard  who  had  ruined  her  life.  Not  quite  ruined!  She 
was  stepping  out  before  it  was  too  late.  Godfrey  found 
her  young,  young  and  distracting.  His  life  had  been 
hungry,  too ;  the  wife,  up  there  in  Canada  somewhere, 
had  never  understood  him.  Godfrey  was  ambitious,  am 
bitious  as  she  was.  She  would  be  his  wife ;  she  would 
see  the  cities  of  the  world  with  him,  the  welcomed  wife 


THE    BATTLE    IN    THE   NIGHT          381 

of  Godfrey ;  she  would  share  the  plaudits  his  wonderful 
voice  won. 

His  eyes  were  on  her  now,  she  knew,  questioning, 
not  quite  sure  of  her.  She  had  worried  him  yesterday 
because  she  would  not  pledge  herself  to  marry  him  if 
he  sued  for  his  divorce.  Her  intuition  told  her  that 
something  was  uncertain,  his  affection  for  her,  or  that 
other  woman's  tie,  if  he  hinged  his  divorce  on  her  prom 
ise.  "I'm  not  sure  of  you !  Will  you  give  me  your 
word?  When  I  am  free,  you,  too,  will  be  free,  waiting 
for  me?" 

She  had  shivered  away  from  his  question.  Terrible 
that  life  put  that  obstacle,  that  dreadful  process  in  her 
way.  Always  life  blocked  her.  His  doubt  gave  her 
doubts  of  him.  Would  he  be  faithful,  a  silver-voiced 
Godfrey;  absent,  other,  younger  women  hanging  on  his 
voice?  It  did  not  hurt  to  keep  a  man  guessing.  She 
had  told  him  to  ask  her  that  after  the  courts  had  set 
him  free.  She  could  not  have  him  sure  of  her.  Men 
tire  when  they  are  sure;  Rickard  had  been  too  sure  of 
her. 

An  exclamation  from  him  recalled  her.  She  found 
that  he  was  no  longer  staring  at  her;  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  trembling  structure  over  which  a  "battle-! 
ship,"  laden  with  rock,  was  creeping. 

"Jove!"  he  cried.    "Those  men  are  heroes." 

Everything  irritated  her  to-day.  She  felt  out  of  sorts/ 
though  she  was  going  to  be  happy!  She  was  going  to 
grasp,  and  keep  what  was  within  reach  of  her  hand.1 
But  this  river,  this  dirty  sordid  work,  was  getting  on 
her  nerves.  Even  Godfrey  now  was  staring  at  the 
trestles  as  though  they  were  circus  rings!  Rickard 
crossed  her  vision,  on  the  run,  his  face  grotesque  with 


382  THE   RIVER 

soot  and  perspiration.  She  saw  him  stoop  to  speak  to 
the  group  of  women;  he  stood  for  a  minute  by  Innes. 
The  grime  shielded  his  expression,  but  she  had  seen 
the  girl's  face!  Her  own  eyes  darkened  with  anger. 
But  she  was  going  to  be  happy.  Her  teeth  clicked  over 
that  slogan.  No  one  should  stand  in  the  way,  Hardin, 
or  that  other.  Rickard  would  see  that  she  had  never 
cared  for  him — hateful  that  it  must  be  long  before  she 
could  show  him.  She  wanted  him  to  know  it  right 
away,  before  those  two  flung  their  secret  in  her  face, 
before  Innes  secretly  triumphed  over  her. 

Rickard,  she  could  see,  was  turning  in  her  direction. 
She  sent  another  brilliant,  dazzling  smile  at  Godfrey, 
who  remembered  to  smile  back  at  her.  She  wanted  to 
have  Rickard  see  them  together,  absorbed  in  each  other. 
It  would  pique  his  vanity,  perhaps,  to  see  how  little  she 
cared.  He  would  see  that  he  had  been  only  one  of 
many  to  her.  She  sent  a  tender  little  whisper  after  the 
smile. 

But  Godfrey  had  been  growing  restless.  It  began  to 
irk  him,  to  tease  his  superb  muscle  to  be  the  only  man 
without  work — "sitting  on  the  bank  like  Cor'nel  down 
yonder !"  He  answered  Gerty,  turning  away  to  her  an 
noyance  to  hail  Rickard. 

"Going  all  right?" 

"Bully,"  cried  Rickard,  not  stopping. 

"Haven't  you  something  for  me  to  do  ?    Can't  I  help  ?" 

"We  can  use  everybody/'  Rickard  called  back  over  his 
shoulder. 

Uncomfortable  to  find  that  that  voice  still  had  power 
to  make  her  tremble.  Even  when  she  loved  Godfrey. 
For  she  did  love  him.  She  intended  to  love  him.  Else 
what  did  life  mean?  Those  broken  beginnings,  those 


THE   BATTLE    IN   THE   NIGHT          383 

false  starts?  It  was  hate,  she  told  herself,  hate  that 
shook  her,  when  Rickard  came  near.  With  all  her  soul 
she  hated  him. 

Godfrey  was  itching  to  be  off,  but  he  would  not  offend 
Mrs.  Hardin.  After  a  deliberate  interval,  she  got  up, 
shaking  out  her  ruffles.  "One  gets  stiff  sitting  so  long. 
Don't  let  me  keep  you." 

He  saw  he  had  hurt  her.  "I  want  to  stay  with  you, 
you  know  that,  dearest.  But  it  doesn't  feel  right  to  see 
them  all  working  like  niggers  and  me  loafing  here.  You 
don't  mind?" 

Oh,  no,  Gerty  did  not  mind !  She  was  tired,  anyway ! 
She  was  going  back  to  her  tent! 

"Won't  you  wait  for  the  closure?" 

Her  laugh  was  airy  and  detached.  "Oh,  they  are 
always  closing  that  river.  They  will  always  be  closing 
it.  It's  no  novelty.  You  can  tell  me  all  about  it." 

He  thrust  a  yellow  paper  into  her  hands.  "I  sent 
that  off  to-day.  Perhaps  you  will  be  glad  ?" 

She  flung  another  of  her  inscrutable  smiles  at  him, 
and  went  up  the  bank,  the  paper  unread  in  her  hands. 
Godfrey's  uncertain  glance  followed  her.  He  had  vexed 
her,  some  way.  He  should  follow  her,  see  her  to  her 
tent.  She  expected  those  little  attentions.  He  loved  to 
please  her,  but  his  eyes  went  back,  yearning,  to  the  river. 
Those  men  working  like  tigers — !  He  was  down  the 
bank  in  a  trice. 

"Give  me  something  to  do!" 

The  long  afternoon  wore  away.  On  a  giant  rock  on 
a  flat  car,  Silent  stretched  his  muscles,  and  looked  at 
his  watch.  Mortally  tired  he  was.  He  thought  of  his 
bed,  and  a  cup  of  steaming  coffee.  An  hour  more! 
They  were  now  dynamiting  the  largest  rocks  on  the  cars 


384  THE   RIVER 

before  unloading  them.  The  heavy  loads  could  not  be 
emptied  quickly  enough.  Not  dribbled,  the  rock,  but 
dumped  simultaneously,  else  the  gravel  and  rock  might 
be  washed  down-stream  faster  than  they  could  be  put 
on.  The  job  called  for  an  alert  eye  and  hand  working 
together.  Many  cars  must  be  unloaded  at  once ;  the  din 
on  Silent's  train  was  terrific.  His  crew  looked  like 
devils,  drenched  from  the  spray  which  rose  from  the 
river  each  time  the  rock-pour  began;  blackened  by  the 
smoke  from  the  belching  engine.  The  river  was  ugly 
in  its  wrath.  It  was  humping  itself  for  its  final  stand 
against  the  absurdity  of  human  intention;  its  yellow 
tail  swished  through  the  bents  of  the  trestle. 

"It  isn't  what  I'd  call  pretty,"  yelled  Wooster  to 
Bodefeldt,  as  they  passed  in  a  flat  car.  The  noise  of 
the  rock-pouring  began  again. 

"Not  a  picnic,"  cried  Bodefeldt. 

But  there  was  a  thrill  in  it.  They  were  working 
against  the  most  formidable  force  in  nature,  against  time, 
and  moreover  without  precedent.  Not  one  of  them  would 
risk  a  hazard  as  to  the  next  move  of  the  wily  Dragon. 
A  swift  rise,  and  swift  rises  of  the  Gila  were  always 
to  be  feared,  and  their  barrier  would  be  flung  down 
the  channel  as  a  useless  toy.  Haste  was  their  only 
chance.  The  breath  of  the  workers  came  quick  and 
short.  The  order  came  for  more  speed.  Rickard  moved 
from  bank  to  raft ;  knee  deep  in  water,  screaming  orders 
through  the  din;  directing  the  gangs;  speeding  the  rock 
trains ;  helping  Wooster,  who  was  driving  large  gangs 
of  Mexicans  and  Indians.  The  river  must  not  be  allowed 
to  creep  around  the  bulwark,  to  catch  them  unawares ; 
the  work  must  not  halt  for  an  instant;  the  force  of  the 
thwarted  river  growing  fiercer  with  each  pour  of  rock. 


THE   BATTLE   IN   THE   NIGHT          385 

Haste  against  strength,  or  the  victory  the  river's !  Har- 
din  oscillated  between  the  levee  and  dams,  taking  orders, 
giving  orders.  His  energy  was  superb.  His  heavy  run 
was  like  a  bulldog's,  full  of  ferocious  purpose.  Mar 
shall  halted  him  as  he  thumped  past,  straight  from  the 
levees. 

"It's  going  all  right,"  he  assured  the  man  who  had 
humiliated  him.  His  sense  of  wrong  was  sleeping;  the 
battle  developed  the  real  soldier.  "The  levee  will  stand 
if  we  can  work  quick  enough." 

"Good!"  cried  Marshall.     "We'll  win  yet,  old  man!" 

It  had  grown  dark,  but  no  one  yet  had  thought  of  the 
lights,  the  great  Wells'  burners  stretched  across  the 
channel.  To  Marshall's  war-trained  ear,  the  glut  of 
raining  rock  sounded  like  cannonading.  It  was  a  queer 
scene,  the  dark  pocket  of  battle-ground,  the  clouds  of 
smoke,  the  dashing  mountains  of  spray ;  men  rushing  to 
and  fro  like  masked  dwarfs,  trains  thundering  on  to  the 
trestles.  Suddenly,  the  lights  flared  out. 

Marshall  found  himself  standing  by  Captain  Brandon, 
who  had  his  note-book  in  his  hand.  The  dark  had  stolen 
on  him ;  but  he  kept  on  scribbling  his  report  to  the 
Sun.  He  did  not  hear  Marshall's  inquiry. 

Behind  them,  coming  closer,  broke  a  rhythmic  beat. 
Molly  Silent's  waiting  ear  heard  it,  too — it  was  the  night 
shift  coming  on!  She  hastened  clumsily  to  the  rock- 
filled  end  of  the  trestle,  and  waited  for  Silent  to  leave 
his  train. 

As  he  let  himself  down  from  the  cab,  she  could  hear 
him  say  that  it  was  about  time.  "I'm  all  in."  Just  then, 
the  Dragon  lashed  its  mighty  foaming  tail;  the  trestle 
shook  as  though  it  were  a  mouse  in  the  sharp  teeth  of  a 
terrier. 


386  THE   RIVER 

The  engineer  who  was  taking  Silent's  place,  drew 
back. 

"That's  your  train,"  said  Silent,  who  did  not  yet  see 
his  wife. 

There  was  another  lash  of  the  angry  tail.  The  engi 
neer  shook  his  head.  "It  don't  look  good  to  me."  A 
whistle  blew.  The  trestle  was  still  shuddering  as  though 
in  the  grip  of  an  earthquake. 

"I've  been  an  engineer  for  twenty  years,  but  God 
Almighty  Himself'd  not  take  me  out  on  that  bridge  to 
night.  I'd  give  up  my  job  first." 

"It's  up  to  me,  then,"  said  Silent.  And  then  two  arms 
were  thrown  around  his  neck. 

"Why,  lassie,"  he  cried.    "Why,  little  mother." 

She  clung  to  him.    The  whistle  blew  again. 

"Why,  lassie !"  He  put  her  away  from  him,  and  she 
saw  him,  though  mistily,  climb  back  into  the  cab,  the 
man-work  swallowing  him  again. 

Not  one  of  those  who  labored  or  watched  would  ever 
forget  that  night.  The  spirit  of  recklessness  entered 
even  into  the  stolid  native.  The  men  of  the  Reclamation 
forgot  this  was  not  their  enterprise ;  the  Hardin  faction 
jumped  to  Rickard's  orders;  there  was  a  whip  of  haste 
in  the  air.  Brandon's  old  style  came  back  to  him  as 
he  wrote,  standing  now  under  the  great  swinging  light, 
his  report  for  the  Sun.  "Bertha  will  be  reading  it 
to-morrow!"  He  despatched  one  bulletin,  and  began 
another.  His  periods  rolled  cff,  sonorously  syllabled. 
Down  by  the  trestle,  humped  up  like  a  camel,  the  mud 
washed  from  his  hair  which  fell  like  stiff  wires  from  his 
head,  watched  Cor'nel.  He  had  not  eaten,  had  not  stirred 
from  his  place  that  day. 

The  rain  of  rocks,  by  midnight,  had  settled  into  a 


THE   BATTLE    IN   THE    NIGHT          387 

steady  storm.  The  momentum  was  gigantic.  The 
watchers  on  the  bank  sat  tense,  thrilled  out  of  recogni 
tion  of  aching  muscles,  or  the  midnight  creeping  chill. 
No  one  would  go  home.  Mrs.  Marshall  and  Molly 
Silent  carried  the  sleeping  boy  into  the  Palmyra,  where 
he  was  laid  in  Mrs.  Marshall's  bed. 

"He'll  lie  till  morning,  once  he's  asleep,"  whispered 
his  mother,  and  they  crept  down  to  the  bank  again.  The 
swinging  lights  had  turned  the  darkness  into  a  pale 
twilight.  Each  searched  through  the  uncertain  light  for 
a  familiar  figure,  for  the  soldier  she  had  lent.  Wist 
fully,  Claudia  was  wondering  if  Tod's  flannels  were  wet. 
Once,  he  came  within  reach  of  her  hand,  but  she  dared 
not  ask  him.  He  was  on  the  run.  "Hell!  what's  the 
matter  with  that  train?" 

To  Innes,  the  struggle  was  vested  in  two  men,  Rick- 
ard  running  down  yonder  with  that  light  foot  of  his  as 
swift  as  though  Ling's  mustard  had  not  been  needed  a 
few  days  before;  and  Hardin  with  the  fighting  mouth 
tense.  And  somewhere,  she  remembered,  working  with 
the  rest,  was  Estrada.  Those  three  were  fighting  for 
the  justification  of  a  vision — an  idea  was  at  stake,  a  hope 
for  the  future.  There  was  no  fear,  only  a  wild  exulta 
tion,  when  she  once  saw  Rickard  jump  on  to  an  out 
going  train  of  "battle-ships,"  heavily  laden  with  rock. 
It  was  a  battle  of  giants,  to  her;  drastic  and  dramatic. 

Rickard  passed  and  repassed  her,  running,  or  again 
walking  slowly,  talking  eagerly  to  Marshall.  And  had 
not  seen  her!  Not  during  those  hours  would  he  think 
of  her,  not  until  the  idea  failed,  or  was  triumphant, 
would  he  turn  to  look  for  her.  Knowing,  the  thought 
unfolded  slowly,  knowing  he  would  find  her  there! 

The  real  work  of  the  world  is  man-work;  no  matter 


388  THE   RIVER 

how  she  or  other  women  might  yearn,  theirs  not  the 
endurance.  All  they  can  do  is  negative;  not  to  get  on 
the  track !  Neither  with  pretty  ruffles,  nor  tender  fears  ! 

Knowing  he  would  find  her  there.  Suppose  she 
were  not  there,  she  were  off  building  a  house  when  he 
came  home  to  find  her,  craving  her  comfort  or  her 
laurels?  Suppose  she  had  promised  to  deliver  a  plan, 
and  that  pledge  involved  her  absence,  or  her  attention 
when  the  world  work,  the  man-work  released  him — his 
story  on  his  eager  lips,  her  ears  deaf  to  hear  ?  She  saw 
Brandon  under  the  swinging  light,  and  his  loneliness 
came  knocking  at  her  door.  Was  it  still  necessary  for 
that  wife  to  help  with  the  bread-getting?  On  some 
women,  that  problem  is  thrust,  but  her  college  study, 
her  later  reading,  had  taught  her  that  all  women  should 
seek  it.  An  economic  waste,  half  of  the  world  spend 
ing  more  than  the  other  half  can  earn !  To  the  woman 
who  has  been  spared  the  problem,  comes  the  problem 
of  choice.  Has  any  one,  born  a  woman,  the  daring  to 
say — "I  will  not  choose.  I  will  take  both!  I  will  be 
man  and  woman,  too!"  Suppose  she  were  not  at  home 
when  he  stumbled  back  to  her!  As  soon  leave  that 
corner  of  the  bank! 

Her  muscles  grew  stiff.  Once  in  a  while,  the  watch 
ing  women  stirred,  or  shifted  their  positions,  but  they 
did  not  get  up.  They  would  stay  where  their  man, 
Marshall,  or  Silent,  Rickard,  Hardin,  could  find  them. 
Only  one  woman  symbolized  that  thought,  and  she  fol 
lowed  it  until  it  curved,  bringing  her  back  to  that  twi 
light  of  clamor,  the  fight  between  disorder  and  plan, 
waste  and  conservation,  herself  sitting  on  the  bank 
waiting. 


THE   BATTLE   IN   THE   NIGHT          389 

Visibly,  the  drama  moved  toward  its  climax.  Before 
many  hours  passed,  something  would  happen,  the  river 
would  be  captured,  or  the  idea  forever  mocked.  Each 
time  a  belching  engine  pulled  across  that  hazardous  track, 
it  flung  a  credit  to  the  man-side.  Each  time  the  waters, 
slowly  rising,  hurled  their  weight  against  the  creaking 
trestles  where  the  rock  was  thin,  a  point  was  gained  by 
the  militant  river.  Its  roar  sounded  like  the  last  cry  of 
a  wounded  animal  to  Innes*  ear;  the  Dragon  was  a  re 
ality  that  night  as  it  spent  its  rage  against  the  shackles 
of  puny  men. 

Down  in  the  shadow  of  a  lamp-pole,  the  light  flaring 
riverward,  crouched  Coronel.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on 
those  approaching  walls  of  rock.  Motionless,  he  watched 
the  final  tussle,  a  grunt  following  each  glut  of  rock. 
Somewhere,  his  muscles  ached,  but  his  brain  did  not  re 
ceive  their  message.  It  was  off  duty.  His  mind  was 
sending  that  car  across  the  trestle ;  it  was  hastening  the 
charge,  that  quick  clattering  downfall  of  shattered  rock. 

Molly  Silent  had  seen  her  husband's  train  pull  in.  She 
watched  for  it  'to  go  out  again.  The  whistle  blew  twice. 
Something  was  wrong.  She  left  her  place  in  time  to  see 
Silent,  his  face  shining  ghastly  pale  under  the  soot,  pull 
himself  up  from  the  "battle-ship"  where  he  had  been  lean 
ing.  Estrada,  sent  by  Rickard  to  find  out  why  the  train 
did  not  pull  out,  saw  him  the  same  instant  as  did  Molly. 
Silent  swayed,  waving  them  back  unseeingly,  like  a  man 
who  is  drunk. 

"God,  man,  you  can't  go  like  that!"  cried  Estrada. 

"Who's   going?"   demanded   Silent,  his  tongue  thick 
with  thirst  and  exhaustion.    The  whistle  blew  again. 
"I  will !"    [The  train  moved  out  on  the  trestle,  as  the 


390  THE   RIVER 

whistle  blew  angrily  twice.  Only  Molly  and  Silent  saw 
Estrada  go.  Silent  staggered  unseeingly  up  the  bank, 
toward  the  camp,  Molly  heavily  following. 

Workers  and  watchers  felt  a  queer  light  playing  on 
their  faces,  but  no  one  stopped  to  look  at  the  lamps 
swinging  across  the  channel,  or  they  would  have  seen 
that  they  were  growing  dim.  The  test  of  strength  was 
coming ;  no  time  to  brush  the  damp  hair  from  their  eyes. 
The  river  was  humping  out  yonder;  the  rolling  mass 
came  roaring,  flank-on,  against  the  dam. 

"Quick,  for  God's  sake,  quick,"  yelled  Rickard.  His 
signals  sounded  short  and  sharp.  ''Dump  it  on,  throw 
the  cars  in!"  Marshall  was  dancing,  his  mouth  full  of 
oaths,  on  the  bank  edge.  Breathlessly,  all  watched  the 
rushing  water  fling  itself  over  the  dam.  For  several 
hushed  seconds,  the  structure  could  not  be  seen.  When 
the  foam  fell,  a  cheer  went  up.  The  dam  was  standing. 
Silent,  it  was  supposed,  was  bringing  in  his  train. 

Above  the  distant  jagged  line  of  mountains,  rose  : 
red  ball.  A  new  day  began.  The  light  fell  on  the  facei 
of  the  fighting  men ;  Indians  and  Caucasians  alike  black 
with  river  mud  and  soot.  The  work  went  on.  Anc\ 
again  the  Dragon  rose;  a  mountain  of  water  came  roll 
ing  damward. 

"Hump  yourselves,"  screamed  Marshall.  The  signal^ 
sounded  like  hoarse  cries. 

Three  trains  ran  steaming  on  the  rails. 

"We'll  get  those  rocks  over  before  the  river  kicks/' 
cried  Rickard.  "Be  ready,  Irish,  to  run  in  when  they 
come  back.  Don't  stop  now  to  blast  the  big  ones.  Pour 
'em  on !" 

There  was  a  long  wait  before  any  rock  fell.    Marshall 


THE   BATTLE    IN   THE   NIGHT          391 

and  Rickard  waited  for  the  pour.     The  whistles  blew 
again. 

"Why  in  Hades,"  began  Marshall,  and  then  they  saw 
what  was  wrong.  The  morning  light  showed  a  rock 
weighing  several  tons  which  was  resisting  the  efforts  of 
the  pressing  crew.  Out  of  the  gloom  sprang  other 
figures  with  crowbars. 

"Why  don't  they  try  to  use  mountains?"  swore  Mar 
shall,  and  the  rock  tottered,  fell.  The  river  tossed  it  as 
though  it  were  a  tennis  ball,  sent  it  hurtling  down  the 
lower  face  of  the  dam.  The  river's  strength  was  never 
more  terrible. 

"Damn  those  almighty  fools !"  screamed  Tod  Marshall. 

"A  fluke,"  yelled  Rickard. 

Things  began  to  go  wild.  The  men  were  growing 
reckless.  They  were  sagging  toward  exhaustion;  mis 
takes  were  made.  Another  rock,  as  heavy  as  the  last, 
was  worked  toward  the  edge.  No  one  listened  to  the 
frantic  signals  to  dynamite  that  rock,  break  it  on  the  car. 
Men  were  thick  about  it  with  crowbars.  There  was 
another  wait,  the  whistles  confusing  the  men  on  the 
train.  They  hurried.  One  concerted  effort,  drawing 
back  as  the  rock  toppled  over  the  edge.  One  man  was 
too  slow,  or  too  tired.  He  slipped.  The  watchers  on 
the  bank  saw  a  flash  of  waving  arms,  heard  a  cry ;  they 
had  a  glimpse  of  a  blackened  face  as  the  foam  caught 
it.  The  waters  closed  over  him. 

There  was  a  hush  of  horror;  a  halt. 

"God  Himself  couldn't  save  that  poor  devil,"  cried 
Marshall.  "Have  the  work  go  on !" 

Pour  rocks  on  that  wretch  down  there?  Pin  him 
down?  Never  had  it  seemed  more  like  war!  "A  man 


392  THE    RIVER 

down?  Ride  over  him!  to  victory!"  Soberly,  Rickard 
signaled  for  the  work  to  go  on. 

The  rock-pour  stuttered  as  if  in  horror.  The  women 
turned  sick  with  fear.  No  one  knew  who  it  was.  Some 
poor  Mexican,  probably. 

Some  one  standing  near  Rickard  said  that  it  was  Ar 
nica  Jack;  he  said  he  had  seen  his  face.  He  had  gone 
out  on  that  train.  Rickard  thought  of  the  saved  salary. 

"Why  doesn't  that  train  come  in  ?  What  is  the  matter 
with  Silent?"  His  signals  brought  in  the  battle-ships, 
moving  as  though  they  were  funeral  carriages. 

"Where  is  Silent?"  demanded  Rickard,  running  down 
to  the  track.  A  blackened  figure  was  letting  himself 
down  from  the  car.  The  smell  of  something  pungent 
struck  sharply  against  Rickard's  nostrils.  Arnica! 
"Where's  Silent?"  he  demanded. 

"  'E  didn't  take  hout  this  'ere  train."  The  hobo's  eyes 
looked  owlish. 

"Then  who?"  the  engineer  was  beginning,  when  it 
came  to  him.  He  himself  had  sent  Estrada  to  question 
Silent !  He  knew  what  the  tramp  was  going  to  tell  him ! 

"The  young  Mexican,  Hestrada.  'E  tried  to  'elp.  'E 
wasn't  fit." 

"Who  was  it?'*  Marshall  had  run  down  to  see  why 
the  work  paused. 

Rickard  turned  shocked  eyes  on  his  chief.  "Estrada !" 
The  beautiful  mournful  eyes  of  Eduardo  were  on  him, 
not  Marshall's,  horrified. 

"But  it  came  again;  it  kept  coming.  I  had  it  while 
you  were  all  talking,  just  now!" 

If  that  terrible  smell  didn't  take  itself  off!  He  hated 
the  stupid  wretch  standing,  open-jawed  before  him,  be- 


THE    BATTLE    IN    THE    NIGHT          393 

cause  it  was  Estrada's  and  not  those  owlish  eyes  that 
were  lying  in  those  waters  yonder. 

"Rickard!"  The  engineer  did  not  recognize  the 
quenched  voice.  "The  work  has  got  to  go  on." 

It  came  to  Rickard  as  he  gave  the  orders  for  the 
trains  to  run  "and  be  quick  about  it,"  that  Eduardo  was 
closer  to  Marshall  than  to  him.  "As  near  a  son  as  he'll 
ever  have." 

He  turned  a  minute  later  to  see  his  chief  standing 
bareheaded.  His  own  cap  came  off. 

"We're  burying  the  lad,"  said  Marshall.  A  rain  of 
rock  struck  the  nerves  of  all  of  them,  though  less  than 
six  people  knew  who  it  was  who  had  paid  the  tribute 
of  life  to  the  river.  Rickard  kept  the  smell  of  arnica  in 
his  nostrils.  It  nauseated  him.  Never  would  its  sharp 
breath  blow  on  him  but  that  scene  would  shake  him  in 
all  its  horror, — the  sad  beautiful  face  under  those  ma 
lignant  waters,  the  rocks  nailing  it  down.  "It  kept  com 
ing.  I  had  it  while  you  were  all  talking — just  now !" 

The  minute  of  funeral  had  to  be  pushed  aside.  The 
river  would  not  wait.  Train  after  train  was  rushed  on 
to  the  trestles ;  wave  after  wave  hit  them.  But  per 
ceptibly,  the  dam  was  steadying.  The  rapid  fire  of  rock 
was  telling. 

Another  ridge  of  yellow  waters  rose.  Every  eye  was 
on  that  watery  mountain ;  it  appeared  to  wait,  as  if  sum 
moning  its  strength  for  a  final  onslaught.  The  river's 
stillness  was  ominous  to  the  sweating  men  who  watched 
as  they  labored  that  bulge  of  yellow  water.  Car  after 
car  ran  on  to  the  track;  load  after  load  of  clattering 
rock  was  dumped.  The  roll  of  water  came  slowly, 
dwindling  as  it  came ;  it  broke  against  the  trestle  weakly. 
For  the  first  time,  the  trestle  never  shuddered.  Workers 


394  THE    RIVER 

and  watchers  breathed  as  a  unit  the  first  deep  breath 
that  night.  There  was  a  change. 

Hardin  came  rushing  down  to  the  track  where  the 
rock  cars  ran  on  to  the  trestles. 

"It's  stopped  rising!"  he  bellowed. 

"Then  work  like  hell !"  bawled  Rickard. 

There  followed  some  minutes  of  intensity  when  the 
rock-pour  was  almost  continuous.  Was  not  that  another 
bulge  of  yellow  waters,  swelling  there  to  the  east? 
Every  eye  was  on  the  river  where  it  touched  the  rim 
of  the  dam.  Suddenly,  a  chorused  cry  rose.  The  river 
had  stopped  rising! 

"Don't  stop !  She  may  hump  yet !"  Rickard  was  split 
ting  his  voice  against  the  cheers.  The  whistles  screamed 
themselves  hoarse. 

"We've  got  her!"  screamed  Hardin.  "She's  going 
down!" 

And  then  a  girl,  sitting  on  the  bank,  saw  two  men 
grab  each  other  by  the  hand.  She  was  too  far  away  to 
hear  their  voices,  but  the  sun,  rising  red  through  the 
banks  of  smoke,  fell  on  the  blackened  faces  of  her 
brother  and  Rickard.  She  did  not  care  who  saw  her 
crying. 

A  small  sound  started  down  the  river.  It  grew  into 
a  swelling  cheer,  the  paean  of  victory.  It  demoralized 
into  wild  yells.  Suddenly,  the  noise  stopped.  Simul 
taneously,  Marshall  and  Rickard  had  held  up  their 
hands.  The  whistles  had  blown. 

"What  was  that  for?"  demanded  Mrs.  Marshall. 

"I  suppose  they  can't  afford  to  waste  any  time." 
Innes'  reply  was  uncertain.  She,  too,  was  wondering. 

Rickard,  they  could  hear,  again,  screaming  directions. 
The  battle  was  won;  but  it  must  be  kept  won.  But  no 


THE   BATTLE    IN   THE   NIGHT          395 

cheering!  The  men  didn't  know  who  it  was  who  was 
buried  out  yonder. 

When  things  were  well  under  way,  Rickard  discovered 
that  his  head  was  hot,  his  skin  chilly.  He  would  lay  off 
for  an  hour.  He  would  put  Hardin  in  his  place,  Hardin 
or  Irish. 

He  found  Hardin,  who  was  having  his  minute  of  re 
action.  This  was  not  his  triumph.  Sullenly,  he  accepted 
Rickard's  place.  Rickard  turned  back.  "Had  you 
heard?  That  was  Estrada  out  there." 

Hardin's  expression  followed  him,  the  gloom  of  sullen 
egotism  passing  slowly  from  the  face  of  unwilling  horror. 
He  had  not  spoken,  but  his  look  said:  "Not  Estrada! 
Any  one  but  Estrada!'* 

"Any  one  but  Estrada!  He's  about  the  only  man  in 
this  camp  without  enmities/'  thought  Rickard,  and  then 
he  wondered  if  any  one  had  told  Innes  Hardin.  He 
went  in  search  of  her,  passing  Coronel,  whose  head 
rested  on  his  chest.  His  snores  could  be  heard  above  the 
noise  of  the  rock  bombardment. 

Mrs.  Marshall,  weeping,  was  being  led  back  to  the  car 
by  her  husband.  Innes,  he  could  see,  had  heard!  Her 
eyes,  fixed  on  the  conquered  waters,  were  seeing  Estrada, 
buried  out  there. 

Rickard  turned  away  without  being  seen.  The  minute 
he  had  been  waiting  for  was  not  his.  It  belonged  to 
Estrada. 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  DESERTION 

WHEN  the  afternoon  waned,  and  Godfrey  did  not 
follow  her,  Gerty  was  roused  to  uneasiness.  Had 
she  angered  him  by  refusing  to  make  the  definite  prom 
ise?  Could  it  be  love,  the  sort  of  love  she  wanted,  if  he 
could  stay  away  like  this  when  they  could  have  the  camp 
to  themselves,  every  one  down  at  the  break,  no  Hardins 
running  in  every  minute?  Their  first  chance,  and  God 
frey  slighting  it!  Something  was  wrong.  The  Godfrey 
who  had  rushed  on  work  like  a  glad  hungry  tiger,  was 
incomprehensible  to  her.  Something  must  have  hap 
pened. 

She  ruffled  down  to  a  disordered  mess-tent.  Wooster 
and  one  of  the  Reclamation  Service  men  were  leaving  as 
she  went  in.  She  had  the  table  to  herself.  MacLean,  Jr., 
untidy,  his  clothes  wet  and  dirty,  came  in  to  snatch  a 
bite,  as  she  passed  out,  gay,  indifferent.  No  Godfrey  in 
sight!  Nor  waiting  for  her  in  her  tent.  He  would 
surely  come  that  evening,  knowing  that  she  would  be 
alone!  She  arranged  without  conscious  thought  the 
setting  for  a  scene  of  pretty  domesticity  in  the  ramada. 
After  an  hour  or  more,  she  tossed  down  the  fluffy  sewing 
and  picked  up  a  novel,  her  work  within  reach  of  her 
hand.  The  approach  of  her  own  climax  dulled  the 
printed  sensations. 

The  little  watch  Tom  had  given  her  for  an  almost  for- 

396 


A   DESERTION  397 

gotten  birthday  set  the  pace  for  her  resentment.  Nine, 
ten,  eleven !  How  dared  he  treat  her  so  ?  She  blew  out 
the  lamps  when  she  found  that  she  was  shaking  with 
anger,  and  undressed  in  the  dark.  She  could  not  see 
him,  if  he  came  now,  her  self-control  all  gone !  But  she 
could  not  go  to  bed.  She  stood  in  her  darkened  tent, 
shaken  by  her  angry  passions.  Cruel,  these  men  to  her. 
That  black  moment  stripped  her  thoughts  to  nakedness. 
If  she  had  any  other  refuge,  she  would  never  forgive 
him,  never.  But  what  else  could  she  do?  Where  could 
she  go  ?  Those  lonely,  straitened  widowhoods !  Not 
for  her.  She  had  been  poor  long  enough.  Even  her 
little  importance,  as  the  wife  of  Thomas  Hardin,  was 
gone.  She  dared  not  lose  her  hold  on  Godfrey.  It  came 
to  her  then,  how  slight  her  hold  on  him  was.  A  rover 
with  a  conquering  voice  like  that !  Keep  him  tied  to  her 
wrist  like  a  tamed  falcon  ? 

Suppose  that  he  were  only  trifling  with  her?  What 
was  that  paper  he  had  thrust  in  her  hand?  Where  had 
she  laid  it?  Had  she  dropped  it  on  the  way  from  the 
river  ?  She  groped  for  a  match,  and  lighted  a  candle.  Not 
in  the  dress  she  had  on,  for  none  of  her  gowns  had 
pockets.  Not  on  the  floor,  nor  on  the  piano!  There! 
She  had  dropped  candle  grease  all  over  the  green  man 
darin  skirt,  but  she  didn't  care.  A  fond  message,  per 
haps,  and  she  had  lost  it — out  there  somewhere,  food  for 
horrid  talk!  Her  bureau  drawers  were  ransacked  in  a 
frenzy  of  fear  and  haste.  Suddenly,  she  remembered 
putting  it  in  her  handkerchief  box. 

Candle  grease  dripped  over  the  yellow  paper.  It  was 
a  copy  of  a  telegram  to  Godfrey's  lawyer.  "Start  di 
vorce  proceedings  at  once.  Any  grounds  possible.  Back 
soon.  Godfrey." 


398  THE   RIVER 

The  frightened  blood  resumed  its  normal  flow.  If  he 
had  done  this,  for  her,  then  she  had  not  lost  him.  But 
she  had  seen  what  a  desert  her  life  would  be,  if  she  let 
him  slip  through  her  fingers.  She  couldn't  endure  Tom 
Hardin.  And  Rickard — they  would  expect  her  to  play 
the  glad  grandmother  to  their  young  romance!  She 
couldn't  get  away  quick  enough. 

It  was  then  the  courage  came  to  her.  She  would  not 
be  there  to  be  told  of  it.  An  apparent  elopement,  why 
had  she  never  thought  of  that  before?  That  would  ce 
ment  their  bond.  Her  scruples  could  grow  on  the  road. 
Oh,  she  could  manage  Godfrey!  They  would  startle 
the  world,  a  continent!  Godfrey  was  well  known.  It 
would  seem  splendid;  they  would  believe  her  happy. 
She  would  be  happy!  When  she  could  get  away  from 
them  all,  she  would  forget  the  look  that  sobered  Rick- 
ard's  eyes  when  they  fell  on  Innes.  That  still  had  power 
to  sting  her.  Away,  she  would  find  that  it  was  only 
anger.  She  did  not  care  for  him — she  hated  them  all. 
If  Godfrey  gave  her  happiness,  she  would  keep  him 
transported.  She  knew  she  could.  If  only  she  did  not 
feel  so  tired !  So  strangely  old ! 

She  blew  out  the  candle,  and  went  to  the  door  of  the 
tent-house.  A  low  line  of  smoke  clouds  shut  out  the 
river.  Lines  of  hatred  took  possession  of  her  face.  No 
one  could  have  called  it  childish  or  pretty  then.  There 
they  all  were,  the  people  who  had  wrecked  her  life,  the 
Hardins,  Rickard,  Godfrey  even,  whom  they  would  take 
from  her  if  they  got  the  chance.  She  would  not  give 
them  that  chance!  She  would  go  with  him.  She 
whipped  herself  into  a  pale  imitation  of  excitement, 
telling  herself  that  Godfrey's  importance  would  make 
their  affair  internationally  conspicuous. 


A   DESERTION  399 

She  was  going  to  be  happy.  Perhaps  that  would  cloud 
the  mockery  of  Rickard's  quizzical  eyes.  She  was  quite 
sure  that  she  hated  him.  And  Tom  ?  She  would  not  let 
herself  think  of  him!  Had  he  not  sacrificed  her  youth, 
taken  her  into  a  country  which  ravages  a  woman's 
beauty,  keeping  her  there  until  her  chance  to  escape,  her 
youth,  is  almost  gone?  Her  years  smote  her.  She  re 
membered  that  she  must  go  to  bed  if  she  were  to  have 
any  looks  in  the  morning. 

When  Godfrey  came  to  her  the  next  afternoon,  pen 
itent,  refreshed  after  a  long  morning's  sleep,  he  found 
a  charming  hostess.  Self-controlled,  she  listened  to  the 
story  of  the  capture,  and  deflected  his  apology.  Serpent- 
wise,  she  smiled  at  him  and  called  him  a  great  foolish 
boy !  She  was  shy  about  his  telegram.  She  fled  through 
a  forest  of  phrases  and  he  found  he  was  running  after 
her. 

"You  must  go !"  Enchantingly  distant  when  he  tried 
to  reach  her  hand!  "We  can't  keep  this  up."  How 
tired  she  felt! 

"I  can't  go  without  you,"  he  cried.  He  had  discovered 
her  interpretation  of  his  telegram,  and  it  delighted  him; 
he  began  to  believe  it  his  own  intention.  "I  can't  leave 
you.  You  will  elude  me.  I  shall  carry  you  off  with  me. 
I  can't  leave  you  to  your  scruples,  Gerty,  dear.  I  re 
spect  you  for  them,  darling,  you  know  that.  But  I've 
got  to  keep  near  you  to  strengthen  your  will." 

She  shut  her  eyes  because  she  could  not  force  fervor 
into  them;  his  were  demanding  it.  How  easy  it  had 
been !  He  was  as  plastic  clay  in  her  hands.  He  thought 
that  she  was  suffering.  Life  had  been  hard  on  her.  Poor 
little  girl ! 

"I  know.     You  shrink  from  it  all.     Don't  you  think 


400  THE   RIVER 

I  know,  dear?  You  dread  the  steps  that  will  free  you — 
for  he  has  been  your  husband — you  remember  that ;  you 
will  forget  how  he  has  treated  you.  You  need  me  beside 
you  to  help  you.  Let's  cut  the  knot.  That  makes  it  all 
easy.  To-night  1" 

"Not  to-night.  Maybe,  to-morrow,"  whispered  Gerty, 
and  then  she  managed  a  few  tears,  and  he  was  allowed 
to  kiss  her.  It  was  all  arranged  before  he  left  the 
ramada.  They  were  to  leave  together  the  next  day. 

She  had  let  him  sketch  their  trip  to  New  York.  She 
did  not  tell  him  that  she  was  going  to  stay  in  Los  An 
geles  until  the  divorces  were  obtained,  unless  she  had 
to  go  to  Reno.  Plenty  of  time  for  scruples  to  send  forth 
long  branches  of  regret  between  Yuma  and  Los  Angeles ; 
her  object  would  be  accomplished  by  their  leaving  to 
gether.  He  would  feel  that  he  owed  her  his  name. 

Of  course,  Gerty  must  do  it  the  conventional  way! 
She  would  have  used  rope  ladders  had  they  been  needed. 
The  conventional  note  was  pinned  to  her  bureau  scarf. 

Innes  was  with  Tom  when  he  found  it.  They  came  in 
together  from  the  river.  Neither  had  noticed  the  odd 
looks  from  the  men  as  they  passed  through  the  encamp 
ment.  A  dozen  men  had  seen  Hardin's  wife  leave  for 
the  North  with  Godfrey. 

Gerty's  letter  told  Tom  that  it  was  all  over.  She  had 
tried  to  stand  it,  to  be  true  even  through  his  cruelty,  but 
a  feeling  stronger  than  she  was  made  her  true  to  herself, 
and  so  true  at  last  to  him!  Falsely  dramatic,  every 
word  of  it,  romantically  cruel. 

Innes'  revulsion  lacked  speech.  The  fulfilment  of  her 
intuitions  left  a  smudge; -indelible,  she  knew  when  she 
looked  at  Tom's  face.  She  stretched  out  her  hand 


A   DESERTION  401 

mutely  for  the  letter.  The  common  blatter  sickened  her. 
She  could  offer  no  comfort.  His  eyes  told  her  it  was 
worse  than  death. 

He  struck  off  her  hand  when  it  touched  his  shoulder. 
Gerty's  hand  had  coerced  him  that  way.  He  was  done 
with  softness. 

His  silence  oppressed  her.  This  was  a  man  she  did 
not  know ;  inarticulate,  smitten.  She  told  herself  that 
even  a  sister  was  an  intruder — but  she  was  afraid  to 
leave  him  alone.  She  went  out,  pitifully,  questioning 
those  tense  face-muscles.  She  took  a  station  by  her  own 
tent  door.  She  would  not  go  down  to  dinner.  Tom,  in 
that  mood,  frightened  her.  For  hours,  she  watched  his 
tent.  When  it  grew  dark,  she  could  no  longer  endure 
it.  He  did  not  answer  her  knock.  She  found  him  where 
she  had  left  him.  But  it  was  a  different  Hardin.  The 
backward  look  now  for  him.  He  had  buried,  in  those 
hours,  his  optimism.  His  life  was  lived.  Gerty's  blow 
had  made  of  him  an  old  man. 

She  forced  herself  toward  the  volcano's  edge;  and 
the  swift  eruption  scorched  her.  It  was  the  pitiable 
wreck  of  dignity,  of  pride.  His  words  were  incoherent  ; 
his  wrath  involved  his  sister,  crouching  in  tears.  When 
he  was  done,  he  began  hurling  clothes  and  brushes  indis 
criminately  into  his  Gladstone. 

"You  are  not  going  after  them?'*  She  had  not  gath 
ered  his  plan. 

"Yes,  I'm  going  after  them,"  he  shouted.  "I'm  not 
wanted,  you  mean.  An  uninvited  guest.  I'll  give  them 
a  chance  for  reciprocity." 

She  caught  his  arm.  "Tom,"  she  pleaded,  "you  can't 
go  like  this.  Wait  until  you  are  calm.  Until  you  can 


402  THE   RIVER 

see  this  clearly."  She  thought  then  that  he  meant  to 
kill  Godfrey. 

His  plan,  when  at  last  she  pieced  together  his  dis 
torted  idea,  was  so  sullen,  so  determined,  that  her  slight 
weapons  could  not  cope  with  it.  He  had  promised  to 
protect  Gerty,  he  kept  repeating.  Well,  he  would  keep 
his  vows,  if  she  didn't.  He  drew,  she  could  see,  a  grim 
satisfaction  from  that  antithesis.  He  would  keep  his 
vows.  He  would  make  that  scoundrel  promise  on  oath 
to  divorce  the  other  woman  and  marry  the  woman  whom 
he  had  dishonored.  Unless  he  got  that  promise,  Hardin 
swore  to  kill  him.  Pacing  up  and  down  the  canvased 
cage  of  a  tent,  he  delivered  himself  of  his  fury. 

Innes  shrank  from  him,  the  man  she  did  not  know. 
The  coarse  streak  was  uncovered  in  all  its  repulsiveness. 
Old  Jasper  Gingg's  face  leered  through  the  features  of 
his  descendant.  Dementia  and  atavism  glared  through 
his  eyes.  His  hate  was  disfiguring.  "I'll  protect  my 
wife.  I'll  keep  my  vows." 

He  turned  on  Innes  suddenly.  She  was  crying,  a 
huddled  heap  on  the  couch.  "I've  had  enough  crying — 
between  you  and  Gerty.  Will  you  get  out?  I've  got  to 
have  some  sleep." 

Through  her  sobs,  he  could  make  out  that  she  was 
afraid  to  leave  him.  He  stood  staring  at  her,  frowning 
at  her  fright,  her  intrusion. 

"Well,  then,  I'll  go.  I'm  used  to  having  to  leave  my 
own  tent.  A  dog's  life."  He  flung  out  into  the  night. 

She  cried  to  him  to  come  back,  that  she  would  go. 
"Don't,  Tom!  Tom!"  Her  voice  rang  through  the  en 
campment.  The  echo  warned  her.  She  saw  questioning 
slits  of  light  from  tents  across  the  trapezium.  She  shut 
the  door. 


A  DESERTION  403 

She  stood  in  the  room  he  had  left;  the  desecrated 
home  of  Tom  Hardin.  It  was  the  wreck  she  had  fore 
seen.  She  would  sit  up  for  him.  She  could  not  sit 
there  watching  that  hateful,  leering  mandarin  skirt, 
daubed  with  candle-drippings;  those  sketches;  every 
thing  recalled  Gerty  Hardin's  wistful  baby  smile.  She 
could  not  bring  herself  to  lie  on  that  couch.  She  thrust 
her  arms  into  Tom's  overcoat,  buttoning  it  around  her, 
and  went  out  to  wait  for  him.  His  own  cot  was  there. 

A  light  shone  from  Rickard's  window.  The  peace  of 
the  stars,  the  light  from  the  window,  smoothed  out  her 
terrors.  She  could  picture  Tom  walking  out  his  trouble, 
crying  out  his  hurt  to  those  same  distant  stars. 

How  fierce  the  resentment  against  pain!  The  atom 
beating  his  head  in  revolt  against  the  universe!  That 
particular  sting,  Tom's ;  another  kind  of  sorrow  the  next 
man's  heritage !  But  the  stars  know  it,  those  worlds  of 
burned-out  griefs;  to  them  how  tenderly  humorous,  she 
thought,  must  be  each  individual  resistance.  A  short 
span,  a  little  joy,  perhaps;  a  little  sorrow;  rebellion; — 
and  then  the  stars  again. 

To-night,  it  was  all  sorrow.  Down  there,  under  the 
rocks,  lay  Estrada.  Tripped  to  his  end  by  the  prophecy 
of  the  general,  the  son  the  corner-stone  of  his  under 
taking!  In  the  river  of  his  plan  the  best  of  them  lay 
sleeping ! 

Who  can  measure  the  influence  upon  youth  the  legends 
of  its  country,  the  effect  of  its  brave  early  history? 
Would  any  of  those  coming  later  fail  to  find  the  thrill 
in  the  story  of  the  man  who  had  visioned  the  idea,  the 
son  whose  eager  service  to  a  comrade  had  consecrated 
it? 

A  short  span: — and  a  little  joy,  perhaps!     Her  eyes 


404  THE    RIVER 

sought  the  light  from  Rickard's  window.  A  little  joy, — 
and  then  the  stars — again! 

Slowly,  the  universe  cradled  her.  She  was  in  her 
first  deep  sleep  when  a  step  passed  her.  A  hand  fum 
bled  uncertainly  over  the  surface  of  the  door;  knocked 
gently.  A  heavy  bundle  dropped  to  the  threshold. 
Again  the  figure  passed  the  occupied  cot,  and  paused, 
going  on  again,  more  softly. 

No  quickened  pulse  told  MacLean,  Jr.,  that  it  was 
Innes  Hardin  sleeping  in  her  brother's  cot. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

INCOMPLETENESS 

QTUMBLING  and  blind,  Hardin  pushed  without  voli- 
O  tion  toward  the  river  which  was  sending  its  peaceful 
waters  once  again  to  the  gulf.  When  he  awoke  to  him 
self  and  the  night,  he  was  on  the  levee. 

His  bitterness  was  coloring  both  strands  of  his  life. 
Strange,  that  a  man's  attainment  can  bring  him  neither 
pride  nor  joy,  his  own  achievement  winning  him  dis 
honor  in  a  double  sense!  The  triumph  of  that  mound 
of  earth,  of  those  turned  waters,  was  not  his.  Gerty 
had  felt  it;  else  she  had  not  flouted  him.  In  everything 
he  had  failed.  Life  held  only  jeers  for  him. 

Nothing  in  Hardin's  experience,  or  in  his  specialized 
reading  had  helped  him  to  a  philosophy  of  life ;  the  books 
men  live  by  were  not  his ;  and  his  crude  egotism,  as  raw 
to-day  as  when  he  was  twenty-five,  in  the  moment  of  his 
trial  tripped  him  to  his  fall.  In  all  his  jaundiced  world, 
there  was  no  rosy  finger  of  light.  His  wounded  shadow 
obscured  the  universe.  His  suffering,  he  felt,  was  un 
paralleled,  because  it  was  undeserved.  What  had  be 
trayed  him?  His  bitterness  was  crying  to  the  stars. 
Wliere  was  the  fault? 

He  kept  telling  himself  that  it  was  not  true.  He  would 
wake  up  and  find  himself  in  his  tent,  under  those  same 
mocking  stars;  he  would  discover  it  to  be  a  hideoua 

405 


4o6  THE   RIVER 

dream.  Why  for  him  this  bite  of  hate,  cried  his  bleed 
ing  ego?  It  was  as  though  life,  which  he  had  been  pur 
suing,  had  turned  suddenly  on  him,  savage  and  virulent, 
had  bitten  him  to  the  bone.  It  wasn't  true,  cried  his 
resistance,  because  it  wouldn't  be  right!  This  crash 
violated  all  his  plans,  warped  his  world,  accused  his 
judgments.  This  the  Hardin  who  had  followed  a  de 
liberate  trail  ever  since  that  morning  of  resolution  in 
this  yet  unawakened  desert?  In  what  had  that  man 
failed,  where  had  he  missed?  Misfortune,  trouble,  he 
had  thought  of  vaguely  as  a  punishment  for  sin,  or  negli 
gence,  as  do  most  eager  spirits,  before  it  comes!  Him 
self!  Tom  Hardin, — why,  life  had  scarcely  begun! 
Why,  since  that  moment,  his  path  had  known  no  turning ; 
one  woman,  one  ambition;  selflessness.  Something  was 
wrong;  the  umpire  caught  napping! 

His  training  betrayed  him  into  a  thicket  of  amaze,  of 
protest.  His  mental  processes  kept  him  in  a  circle  of 
tangled  underbrush.  What  was  physical  pain,  he  cried, 
to  the  torture  of  his  mind?  What  the  agony  of  death? 

Stumbling  along  the  levee  of  his  buried  hopes,  by  the 
peaceful  chained  river  of  his  dedication,  it  came  to  him, 
the  Ultimate,  the  end  of  it  all.  Until  then  death  had 
been  kept  in  its  decent  background.  The  one  incon 
trovertible  fact  of  the  universe  stared  him  now  in  the 
face.  Heretofore,  his  struggle  had  been  set  to  the  tune 
of  life;  now,  the  rest  of  the  way,  he  was  facing  death. 
For  what  is  death  but  the  failure  to  live?  That  was 
where  he,  Hardin,  had  failed.  He  touched  at  a  thought 
of  brotherhood,  the  realization  dim.  Death  had  come  to 
Eduardo  swiftly ;  but  others  it  follows,  cloaking  its  face, 
slowly  stalking  its  victim  down!  Now  he  knew  what 
would  be  his  companion  the  rest  of  the  way! 


INCOMPLETENESS  407 

Brandon,  walking  out  a  philosophic,  bloodless  vigil, 
came  upon  the  distorted,  reeling  fugitive.  The  starlight 
showed  the  face  tortured.  No  safety  for  that  staggering 
derelict  without  a  pilot!  He  grabbed  Hardin  by  the 
arm,  and  with  gentle  force,  directed  his  steps.  He 
talked  of  himself,  his  voice  tuned  to  the  stillness  of  the 
night. 

"I  like  to  walk  before  I  turn  in.  I  go  to  sleep  quicker. 
I  have  no  dreams  then.  'No  dreams,  dear  God,  no 
dreams/  That  is  the  mile-post  of  age,  I  think.  We 
cling  to  our  dreams  in  our  youth.  When  we  begin  to 
grow  old,  we  pray  for  sleep,  which  is  the  beginning  of 
the  prayer  for  death.  It  is  our  preparation  for  the  long 
sleep."  He  would  not  see  the  scowl  that  disfigured 
Hardin's  features. 

"I  often  think  of  that  blessing  of  ours.  Wondering 
if  men  could  endure  what  they  like  to  call  their  supreme 
blessing,  life,  if  we  were  not  able  to  sleep  away  half  of 
it.  We  die  half  of  our  life,  eagerly,  that  we  may  live 
the  other  half.  Strange,  that !" 

Hardin  thought  that  he  was  too  full  of  pain,  of  intol 
erance  to  listen,  but  the  calm  voice  reached  his  fleeing 
thoughts.  The  final  sleep,  release?  Sharply,  he  looked 
at  Brandon's  straight  clean  profile,  ascetic  in  its  intel 
lectual  purity,  sweet  as  a  woman's.  What  had  his  life 
been?  Brandon  kept  on  with  his  quiet  reflection,  but 
Hardin  was  wandering  afield.  His  thoughts  were  grow 
ing  centrifugal,  sympathetic.  Brandon,  too,  had  failed! 

He  found  that  his  companion  had  been  talking  about 
the  river's  capture.    He  caught  a  phrase  now  and  again, 
but  his  thoughts  hovered  over  his  own  hurt  as  vultures     j 
over  a  dying  body. 


408  THE   RIVER 

"That  was  a  great  battle,"  Brandon  was  saying.  "And 
this  the  sort  of  field  on  which  our  future  battles  will  be 
fought.  It's  modern  warfare.  In  a  few  years  the  names 
of  those  generals  will  be  forgotten.  We  call  ourselves 
civilized,  yet  we  put  up  statues  to  a  man  who  bombards 
and  burns  a  town  of  savages.  We'll  learn  to  do  things 
differently.  We'll  learn  our  real  values.  When  the 
world  begins  to  crowd  up,  we'll  find  the  value  of  these 
waste  places.  And  we'll  give  titles  to  men  like  the  older 
Estrada."  Hardin  was  thrown  against  another  wrong. 
He  forgot  that  Brandon  was  droning.  Suddenly,  a  per 
sonal  note  was  sounded.  He  woke  to  hear  Brandon's 
conclusion : 

"You  think  you  will,  but  you  won't.  You  won't  do 
anything  to  him.  You  won't  want  to." 

Hardin  stood  still.  He  stared  at  Brandon.  What  was 
he  talking  about?  It  sounded  like  necromancy.  He  had 
said  nothing  of  Godfrey. 

"You  won't  harm  him."  Brandon  linked  his  arm 
through  the  withdrawn  one  of  Hardin  and  pressed  him 
into  step. 

"You  saw  them?"  Of  course,  everybody  knew  by 
this  time  that  Gerty  had  left  him!  They  had  taken  no 
pains  to  spare  him,  throwing  publicly  their  scorn  of  him 
in  his  face! 

"I  was  at  the  station.  I  think  I  know  how  you  feel. 
How  any  man  would  feel.  Plan  it,  kill  him  with  your 
hands.  Hate  him;  get  it  out  of  you.  Kill  him  before 
you  go  to  sleep."  Hardin  was  staring  like  a  sleep-walker. 
"Get  it  out  of  your  system ;  it's  poison.  When  you  leave 
me" — but  Brandon  did  not  intend  that  to  be  soon — "go 
home  and  write  to  them  both.  Then  you  can  sleep.  To 
morrow,  it  will  be  done.  Then  burn  the  letter.  Satisfy 


INCOMPLETENESS  409 

the  animal,  or  it  will  be  at  your  bedside  waiting  in  the 
morning.  I  always  write  out  my  anger,  before  I  sleep. 
Do  you  remember  the  Lincoln  story?  I've  adopted  that." 

Hardin  shut  his  ears  to  the  anecdote  with  rude  inten 
tion.  Stories!  What  had  he  to  do  with  after-dinner 
stories  a  night  like  this?  Brandon  was  walking  a  little 
faster.  He  intended  to  tire  out  Hardin.  He  finished  his 
whimsical  reminiscence.  "Yes,  I  always  burn  those  let 
ters.  But  I  write  them  first.  It's  a  good  way,  the  Lin 
coln  way." 

Hardin  turned  on  him,  his  twisted  features  unpleasant 
to  see.  "You  think  I  mean  to  hurt  him,  kill  him.  We 
are  not  living  in  dueling  times.  I  wouldn't  touch  the — 
skunk." 

An  ulcer  had  been  pricked.  His  voice  was  calmer. 
The  plan  came  out,  the  ugly  revenge  of  distorted  chiv 
alry  and  hate  and  duty.  Brandon's  low  murmurs  of  at 
tention  passed  for  assent.  Hardin  did  not  notice  that 
they  were  within  sight  of  the  encampment,  nor  that 
Brandon  wheeled  to  retrace  their  steps.  He  took  Bran 
don  back  into  the  beginnings  of  things,  his  cramped 
youth,  his  ambition,  his  awakening  in  that  very  desert, 
his  final  dedication  to  one  woman,  one  idea.  It  was  a 
passionate  self-eulogy,  the  relief  of  the  wounded  self- 
esteem.  Everything  had  mocked  him.  What  use  were 
such  sacrifices,  if  this  be  the  end?  He  demanded  an 
answer  of  the  eternal.  As  well  be  a  beast — the  punish 
ment  no  worse! 

His  fury  had  shouted  itself  hoarse,  stridulous.  She 
was  still  his  wife — he  still  had  a  duty  to  perform,  he 
maintained,  the  duty  of  protection.  It  was  grotesque,  a 
Frankenstein  of  rage,  but  there  was  no  smile  in  Bran 
don's  heart.  He  waited  for  the  storm  to  exhaust  itself. 


4io  THE   RIVER 

Even  when  Hardin  had  finished,  he  hesitated ;  his  words 
must  be  water,  not  fuel  to  those  scorching  fires. 

"It's  good  as  far  as  you  see  it,"  he  was  beginning. 

"Of  course,  it's  right,"  thundered  Hardin.  "She's  not 
to  be  thrown  aside,  my  wife — " 

"No,  but  Godfrey's  wife  is."  Brandon  added  no  com 
ment. 

"Well,  what  of  that?  That's  his  lookout,  isn't  it?  He 
should  have  thought  about  that  before.  I'll  stand  by 
Gerty,  God  Almighty,  until  the  end." 

He  walked  on  sulking. 

"Your  wife.  Because  she  is  your  wife.  It's  the  pro 
noun,  not  the  sex,  or  the  relation.  She's  yours,  that  is, 
she  was.  Oh,  we  recognize  the  marriage  ceremony,  we 
men  to-day,  but  we  go  farther,  we  acknowledge  the  un 
written  sacrament,  inclination.  If  she  no  longer  wants 
to  be  your  wife,  she's  not  your  wife,  Hardin.  You  don't 
want  her.  Let  her  alone.  You  have  no  more  right  to 
her,  or  to  her  life,  after  yesterday/than  though  she  were 
a  dollar  on  another  man's  desk.  You're  not  a  savage. 
And  she's  not  a  child.  She  knows  the  world.  She  can 
protect  herself,  oh,  better  than  you  can." 

Hardin  flung  out  a  protest  to  this  startling  twist  of 
facts.  Brandon  let  him  get  tangled  in  his  angry  rush. 

"The  river,"  began  Brandon,  as  though  they  had  been 
discussing  it.  "You  have  done  this  thing,  but  yours  is 
not  the  credit,  the  published  honor.  It's  Marshall's  and 
Rickard's.  Yet  the  thing  is  done  as  you  wanted  it,  ap 
proximately.  I  heard  that  it  was  you  who  went  after 
Faraday.  Now  the  success  stings  you.  Yours  is  neither 
the  power  nor  the  glory.  The  pronoun  again,  Mr.  Har 
din!" 

Beside  them  ran  the  river,  guileless,  now,  in  its  cap- 


INCOMPLETENESS  '41  i 


tivity.  The  flat  world  stretched  away  from  them  until 
it  ran  into  a  blur  of  rising  shadow,  of  dim  mountain 
ranges.  The  world  was  sleeping ;  only  the  stars  watched. 
In  spite  of  his  resistance,  the  quiet  came  creeping  into 
Hardin's  soul.  His  muscles  were  relaxing;  he  was  slip 
ping  toward  sleep. 

"I've  wondered,  too,"  Brandon  took  a  slower  tempo, 
"if  we  could  not  see  men  better  by  searching  for  their 
apex.  Perhaps  you've  never  looked  at  life  that  way?" 

The  ugly  lip  flared.  Hardin  couldn't  see  what  Bran 
don  was  driving  at.  He'd  never  had  time  to  sit  still  and 
look  at  life!  He'd  just  lived!  Just  worked  along! 

"What  are  we  doing?  Climbing  up  a  mountain. 
Whatever  we  call  this  journey  of  ours,  ambition,  labor; 
life.  We  climb  up ;  we  creep  down.  We  are  taught  to 
climb  up,  plenty  of  teachers  for  that,  all  the  way  along. 
No  one  shows  us  when  to  begin  to  crawl  down.  When 
we  reach  the  apex,  that's  the  trial.  Why?  We  don't 
know  it's  the  apex.  We've  achieved  all  we  can.  Achieved 
or  failed.  We  fail,  anyway,  there,  because  we  find 
we  can't  climb  any  more.  We're  in  the  habit  of  climb 
ing;  we've  a  lust  for  it.  No  slippers  and  easy  chair 
yet  for  us.  We  tell  ourselves  it's  slothful  not  to  climb. 
We  keep  on,  and  we  fall.  We  must  learn  to  creep ;  we 
are  leaving  our  apex.  That's  when  we  need  help,  a 
voice  out  of  a  book,  or  a  friend's  to  help  us  and  say, 
'You've  not  failed!  You  went  as  far  as  you  could. 
You've  done  your  part.  The  young  men  will  do  the 
rest,  the  ones  who  come  after.  They'll  take  the  place 
you  leave.  Why,  man,  you  yourself,  took  another's. 
Creep  down  cheerfully.  You've  lived.  It's  the  eternal 
plan/  " 


4i2  THE   RIVER 

Hardin  did  not  speak,  but  his  eyes  had  left  the  ground. 

"Look  at  this  desert.  I  reckon  that  there's  no  man 
who  knows  better  than  I  do  just  what  you've  done. 
You've  gone  ahead  when  others  laughed  at  you.  You've 
worked  when  others  slept." 

Hardin's  head  lost  its  shamed  droop.  Some  one  knew 
what  he  had  done.  Gerty  had  known,  too,  but  she  was 
ashamed  of  him.  To  her,  he  had  failed. 

"Don't  covet  all  the  parts,  Hardin.  You  started  it, 
you  and  Estrada.  He's  had  less  fun  out  of  it,  even, 
than  you.  I  know  that  you  sacrificed  your  position  to 
get  the  thing  pulled  through.  It  was  a  grand  thing  to 
do,  better  than  putting  the  harness  on  the  river.  I'm 
proud  to  know  you." 

The  stormy  blood  began  its  normal  flow.  He  could 
look  at  the  river,  now,  not  ashamed.  A  few  minutes 
later,  he  remembered  to  ask,  "What  do  you  mean  by 
my  part?" 

"Your  ego,  Hardin.  Our  ego.  It  tells  us  in  our  youth 
to  do  everything,  that  all  the  parts  are  calling  for  us. 
But  one  man  can't  fill  more  than  one  part.  Then  it's 
time  to  get  off  the  stage.  Make  room  for  the  young 
men;  they're  waiting  for  their  chance.  Why,  Hardin, 
you  don't  have  to  write  your  name  all  over  this  desert! 
It's  here !  ^The  world  may  mention  Marshall,  or  Rick- 
ard  when  they  speak  of  the  Colorado,  but  there's  not  a 
man  in  this  valley,  nor  one  who  comes  after,  who'll  fail 
to  take  off  his  hat  to  Tom  Hardin !" 

Hardin  stopped  with  a  jerk.  "Do  you  think  that's 
true?"  r;  .  " 

A  steady  smile,  paternal  in  its  sweetness,  answered 
him.  "I  know  it's  true.  But  what  difference  does  that 


INCOMPLETENESS  413 

make?  You  know.  You  are  on  good  terms  with  your 
self.  That's  all  we  ought  to  want.  It's  a  fact.  Creep 
down  cheerfully." 

The  two  men  struck  homeward.  The  chill  that  pre 
cedes  the  desert  dawn  was  in  the  air. 

"I  yearned  for  completeness,  too,"  mused  Brandon.' 
"We're  made  that  way.  I  thought  that  that  was  what 
life  was.  A  complete  thing.  We  begin  to  believe  in  that 
when  we  are  tugging  at  our  mother's  skirts.  When  we 
grow  older,  we  fight  for  it.  Not  until  we  reach  our 
apex,  not  until  we  begin  to  think  about  death,  do  we  dis 
cover  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  individual  comple 
tion.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  rounded  life,  or  a  complete 
one?  We  live  too  long,  Hardin,  or  die  too  soon.  It's 
creeping  paralysis,  or  an  accident  in  the  street.  We 
never  finish  anything,  even  ourselves!  We  were  never 
intended  to,  that's  my  philosophy.  Our  ego  blinds  us 
to  that.  We  can  only  help  the  scheme  along." 

"Go  on  talking,"  said  Hardin.  Brandon  had  thrown 
him  back  to  his  own  centrifugal  and  nebulous  thought. 

He  was  trudging  now,  his  step  grown  weary,  in  the 
direction  of  the  encampment.  He  could  see  in  the  dis 
tance  his  deserted  tent.  But  his  mood  had  softened. 
The  stream  of  his  shackling  connoted  his  success,  as  this 
man  had  said.  The  valley  beyond,  yielding  its  harvest 
of  happy  homes,  that  had  he  done.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
he  had  not  altogether  failed.  And,  at  last,  he  looked  up 
at  the  stars. 

Before  they  reached  the  camp  Brandon  spoke  again. 
"I  can  remember  when  I  discovered  that  that  was  not 
the  plan.  I'd  just  had  my  knockout.  I  could  not  see 
any  reason  in  it.  For  my  wife  to  have  to  stay  behind 


414  THE   RIVER 

me,  to  support  me  until  I  was  strong  enough  to  get 
started,  or  could  find  a  berth  out  here — it  wasn't  the 
thing  I  wanted!  I  wasn't  pleasant  to  have  around.  I 
moaned  a  good  deal  to  Bertha  about  failure.  I  was  a 
failure,  as  a  hero !  I  had  to  go  to  Boston  to  sell  a  piece 
of  property.  If  I  sold  it,  I  thought  I  could  take  Bertha 
west  with  me.  I  did  not  sell  it.  I  went  in  to  a  symphony 
concert  after  the  deal  fell  through.  I  was  full  of  re 
bellion  ;  the  apex  had  come  too  soon.  I  guess  it  always 
seems  that  way,  whether  we're  fifty,  or  twenty-nine. 
The  music  itself,  the  sounds  did  not  soothe  me.  I  was 
thinking  of  my  paper,  my  ambition.  Ambition  in  a  des 
ert?  It  had  a  mocking  sound.  I  wanted  to  support  my 
wife! 

"I  wasn't  listening  to  the  music.  I  found  I  was  watch 
ing  the  antics  of  the  man  with  the  violoncello.  He'd  sit 
for  a  while  and  never  make  a  sound.  It  struck  me  as 
queer  that  a  man  could  be  willing  to  spend  a  lifetime 
learning  to  play  a  thing  like  that,  spend  an  afternoon  to 
come  in,  just  once  in  a  while!  Just  a  few  notes  a  day! 
I  suppose  you'll  laugh  at  me,  for  we  get  our  lessons  dif 
ferent  ways.  I  got  mine  from  that  'cello  player.  It 
came  to  me  then,  the  apex  philosophy.  I  got  a  view  at 
the  scheme  of  things.  Men's  incompleteness,  the  broth 
erhood  of  man,  our  broken  segments  making  up  the 
whole;  I  remember  when  I  left,  I  was  trying  to  whistle 
a  theme  from  that  great  Pathetique!  I  never  shall  for 
get  that  afternoon.  I  think  of  that  'cello  player,  think 
of  my  life  that  way.  We  are  all  playing  in  the  symphony, 
some  of  us  carry  the  tune  a  little  further,  some  of  us, 
like  the  'cello  player,  content  to  fill  out  the  harmonies." 

They  had  reached  the  encampment.  "I  believe  I'll 
turn  in,"  gruffed  Hardin. 


INCOMPLETENESS  415 

"Good  night."    Brandon  struck  off  to  his  tent. 

Hardin  found  Innes  asleep,  huddled  in  his  overcoat. 
He  did  not  waken  her.  On  his  threshold  he  stumbled 
over  a  clumsy  bundle.  Paper,  torn,  paper  wrappings, 
crackled  under  his  fingers.  He  carried  it  into  his  tent 
and  shut  the  door  before  striking  a  match,  so  as  not  to 
waken  her.  In  the  dark,  he  fumbled  through  the  room 
for  a  match.  Before  lighting  a  candle,  the  flickering 
match  in  his  hand,  he  pulled  down  the  tent  shades  lest 
the  light  arouse  Innes.  He  didn't  want  any  more  woman 
talk !  He  was  stumbling  off  to  bed  when  his  eyes  fell  on 
the  fat  parcel.  The  shape  intrigued  his  curiosity. 

It  was  soiled  and  racked 'from  traveling.  The  labels 
read  "Jalisco;  Nogales;  Guadalajara;  Tepic."  He 
searched  for  the  original  address.  At  last  he  made  out 
a  blurred  and  muddied  "Hardin."  Scrawled  in  by  recent 
fingers  was  "The  Crossing,  Mexico." 

On  the  table  he  unwound  its  dirty  wrappings.  A  cov 
ering  of  cheese-cloth  lined  the  paper  shells.  Hardin's 
weary  eyes  questioned  the  odd-looking  cushion.  His 
fingers  ran  over  the  rigid  curves.  It  came  to  him  then, 
what  it  was.  Gerty's  form!  And  he  sat  it  up  on  its 
waist-line. 

Through  Mexico,  jostled  from  town  to  town;  written 
about,  speculated  on,  sorely  needed  every  time  one  of 
those  dainty  gowns  was  made,  "those  pretty  flimsy 
gowns  of  Gert's !"  At  last  it  had  come  to  the  Heading ! 

He  stared  at  it  vacantly. 

Something  was  happening  within  him;  a  childishness 
he  could  not  control.  The  shuddering  storm  swept  over 
him  as  a  dry  autumn  wind  that  strips  the  trees  gaunt. 

He  staggered  to  the  candle  and  blew  out  its  wavering 
flame.  Picking  up  the  shape,  he  stole  with  it  into  the 


416  THE   RIVER 

next  room.  He  knelt  by  the  bed  that  had  been  Gerty's. 
And  the  grandson  of  old  Jasper  Gingg  cried  out  his 
hurt,  with  his  arms  around  that  unyielding  waist,  his 
head  against  that  stuffed  bosom. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

A  CORNER  OF  HIS  HEART 

THE  second  evening  after  the  closure  Rickard  was 
dining  with  the  Marshalls  in  their  car.  The  Pal 
myra  was  preparing  to  leave  the  siding.  She  was  to 
pull  out  the  next  day.  Already  Marshall  was  restless. 
Tucson  was  calling  him ;  Oaxaca  was  calling  him !  And 
he  was  due  in  Chicago  for  a  conference  with  Faraday. 

Rickard  had  been  protesting  against  his  new  orders. 
It  hurt  him  to  curtail  his  force.  "Not  until  the  concrete 
gate  is  finished,  and  the  whole  length  of  levee  done,  will 
I  feel  safe." 

"Faraday  says  to  go  slow,"  repeated  Marshall.  "He's 
got  something  up  his  sleeve.  It  may  be  taken  off  his 
hands.  If  that's  the  case,  we've  done  our  part." 

"I  like  to  leave  my  work  finished,  not  hanging  in  mid 
air,"  grumbled  the  engineer.  "He'd  hate  to  do  this  over 
again.  I  would !  You  will  advise  him  when  you  see  him 
next  week,  Mr.  Marshall?  Don't  let  him  cut  down  on 
the  force  we  have  now.  Let  us  keep,"  and  then  he 
smiled,  "as  many  as  we  can!" 

For  the  hobo  ranks  were  thinning  as  late  snows  be 
neath  the  sun.  Up  North,  a  city  was  rebuilding.  In 
Mexico,  new  mines  were  being  opened  up.  The  west 
coast  of  Mexico  was  calling  to  those  restless  soldiers 
who  march  without  a  captain. 

417 


4i8  THE   RIVER 

"They  are  going  out  by  way  of  Calexico,"  Rickard 
was  still  smiling  over  some  memories  of  desertion. 
"They've  learned  that  they  can  hoof  it  to  Cocopah,  and 
from  there  sneak  in  on  the  work  trains.  Work  crews 
are  more  vulnerable  than  regular  brakemen;  they  have 
more  imagination.  To  them,  these  returning  hoboes  are 
heroes.  It  was  they  who  saved  the  valley,  not  you,  Mr. 
Marshall !  That's  their  opinion." 

"I  preferred  my  'snap'  myself!"  returned  Marshall. 
"Have  you  cut  down  on  the  Indians  ?" 

Rickard  nodded,  remembering  how  Hardin  had  op 
posed  himself  yesterday  to  the  number  of  men  retained ; 
as  being  twice  too  many!  The  same  Hardin!  An  awk 
ward  relationship  swung  toward  the  two  men.  Hardin, 
it  was  easy  to  see,  was  striving  to  remember  his  grati 
tude  to  the  man  who  had  stopped  the  river.  He  himself 
had  different  reasons  for  wishing  to  be  fair  to  Tom 
Hardin!  His  name  was  brought  up  by  Tod  Marshall. 
"She  was  light  potatoes,"  he  dismissed  the  woman.  "But 
she's  broken  the  man's  spirit." 

Rickard,  it  was  discovered,  had  nothing  to  say  on  the 
subject  of  the  elopement. 

"I'm  sorry  his  sister  is  not  here  to-night,"  began  Mar 
shall  mischievously. 

"I  did  ask  her,  Tod,"  Claudia  hastened  to  interrupt 
her  lord.  "But  she  would  not  leave  her  brother  her  last 
evening." 

"Her  last  evening?"  exclaimed  Rickard.  "Is  she  going 
away  ?" 

Marshall  subdued  his  twinkle.  "We  are  carrying  her 
off.  She  is  to  visit  Mrs.  Marshall  while  I  am  on  the 
road." 

"Just  a  few  days,"  put  in  his  wife.     "She  feels  thai 


A  CORNER  OF  HIS  HEART  419 

her  brother  wants  to  be  by  himself.    I  think  she  is  right." 

And  the  Palmyra  made  early  runs !  He  must  see  her 
that  night.  He  would  leave  as  soon  as  he  decently  could. 
Tony's  dinner  was  endless  to  him. 

Mrs.  Marshall  found  opportunity  in  her  guest's  ab 
straction  to  explain  to  her  husband  that  at  last  Mrs. 
Silent  had  consented  to  let  her  take  the  boy,  Jimmie, 
"out"  with  her. 

"She's  not  well  herself.  Another !"  She  arched  her 
eyebrows  meaningly. 

Rickard  gulped  down  his  coffee,  boiling.  Tony  was 
looking  with  tragic  concern  at  the  untasted  dessert  on 
the  engineer's  plate.  "Mrs.  Marshall,  will  you  let  me 
run  away  early?"  Why  should  he  give  any  excuse? 
They  knew  what  he  was  running  away  for ! 

He  made  his  way  to  the  little  white  tent  on  the  far 
side  of  the  trapezium.  The  door  was  open,  the  lamp 
light  flaring  through.  He  could  see  Coronel  struggling 
with  the  straps  of  a  brass-bound  trunk.  Innes,  by  the 
door,  was  bidding  good-by  to  Senora  Maldonado. 

He  could  hear  her  voice  as  he  drew  near.  "You'll  let 
me  hear  from  you  ?  How  you  are  getting  on  ?  And  the 
children?" 

He  forgot  to  greet  the  Mexican.  She  stood  waiting; 
her  eyes  full  of  him.  Surely,  the  kind  senor  had  some 
thing  to  say  to  her  ?  He  had  taken  the  white  girl's  hand. 
He  was  staring  into  the  white  girl's  eyes.  Something 
came  to  her,  a  memory  like  forgotten  music.  Silently, 
she  slipped  away  into  the  night. 

Rickard  would  not  release  Innes'  hand ;  her  eyes  could 
not  meet  the  look  in  his. 

"Wasn't  she  good  to  come?  She  rode,  horseback,  aK 
the  way  up  here  just  to  say  good-by  to  me.  She  is  go- 


420  THE   RIVER 

ing  to  Nogales  to  live,  taking  the  children.  She  thinks 
she  has  a  good  chance  there.  She  asked  me  to  tell  you." 
Her  chatter,  too,  dropped  before  his  silence.  He  kept 
her  hand  in  his. 

"Come  out  and  have  a  walk  with  me!  It's  not  too 
late?" 

Her  foolish,  chattering  speech  all  mute! 

"The  levee?"  asked  Rickard.  Still  holding  her  hand, 
he  drew  it  through  the  loop  of  his  arm. 

"You  were  not  going  to  tell  me  you  were  going?" 

No  answer  to  that  either !  How  could  she  tell  him  she 
was  going  when  she  knew  what  she  knew ! 

"You  were  running  away  from  me  ?"  He  leaned  down 
to  her  face. 

If  she  dared,  she  would  be  pert  with  him;  she  would 
not  have  to  run  away  from  him! 

"You  know  that  I  love  you !  I  have  been  waiting  for 
this  minute,  this  woman,  all  these  lonely  years." 

Her  head  she  kept  turned  from  him.  He  could  not  see 
the  little  maternal  smile  that  ran  around  the  curves  of 
her  mouth.  Those  years,  filled  to  the  brim  with  stern 
work,  had  not  been  lonely.  Lonely  moments  he  had  had, 
that  was  all.  She  could  understand  how  a  man  like 
Rickard  would  find  those  moments  lonely.  There,  he 
and  Tom  stood  together.  He  was  asking  her  to  fill  those 
minutes ;  those  only.  But  he  did  not  know  that.  He 
would  not  know  what  she  meant  if  she  told  him  that  he 
was  asking  her  to  fill  a  corner  of  his  heart ! 

"Nothing  for  me?"  He  stopped,  and  made  her  face 
him,  by  taking  both  of  her  hands  in  his. 

She  would  not  look  at  him  yet,  would  not  meet  the 
look  which  always  compelled  her  will,  stultified  her 
speech.  She  had  something  to  say  first. 


A   CORNER   OF   HIS    HEART  421 

"We  don't  know  each  other;  that  is,  you  don't  know 
me !"  She  was  not  going  to  let  them  make  that  mistake, 
let  him  make  that  mistake ! 

"Is  that  all?"  There  was  relief  in  his  voice.  For  a 
bad  moment  he  had  wondered  if  it  was  possible,  if 
Estrada — "I  don't  know  you?  Haven't  I  seen  you  day 
by  day?  Haven't  I  seen  your  self-control  tried,  proved 
— haven't  I  seen  your  justice,  when  you  could  not  un 
derstand —  Look  at  me!" 

She  shook  her  head,  her  eyes  on  the  sand  under  her 
feet.  He  could  scarcely  catch  her  words.  They  did  not 
know  each  other.  He  did  not  know  her ! 

"Dear!  I  don't  know  whether  you  love  red  or  blue, 
that's  a  fact ;  Ibsen  or  Rostand ;  heat  or  cold.  Does  that 
matter  ?  I  know  you !" 

An  upward  glance  had  caught  him  smiling.  Her 
speech  was  routed.  "I'm — the — only  girl  here !" 

"Do  you  think  that's  why  I  love  you  ?" 

"Ah,  but  you  loved  Gerty!"  That  slipped  from  her. 
She  had  not  meant  to  say  that! 

"Does  that  hurt?"  Abashed  by  her  own  daring,  yet 
she  was  glad  she  had  dared.  She  wanted  him  to  deny 
it.  For  he  would  deny  it?  She  wondered  if  he  were 
angry,  but  she  could  not  look  at  him. 

The  minutes,  dragging  like  weighted  hours,  told  her 
that  he  was  not  going  to  answer  her.  It  came  to  her 
then  that  she  would  never  know  whether  Gerty's  story 
were  wholly  false,  or  partly  true.  She  knew,  then,  that 
no  wheedling,  wife's  or  sweetheart's,  would  tease  that 
story  from  him.  It  did  not  belong  to  him. 

His  silence  frightened  her  into  articulateness.  He 
must  not  think  that  she  was  foolish!  It  was  not  that, 
in  itself,  she  meant.  The  words  jostled  one  another  in 


422  THE    RIVER 

their  soft  swift  rush.  He — he  had  made  a  mistake  once 
before.  He  had  liked  the  sort  of  woman  he  had  thought 
Gerty  was.  She  herself  was  not  like  the  real  Gerty  any 
more  than  she  was  like  the  other,  the  woman  that  did 
not  exist.  He  would  find  that  they  did  not  think  alike, 
believe  alike,  that  there  were  differences — 

"Aren't  you  making  something  out  of  nothing,  Innes  ?" 

That  voice  could  always  chide  her  into  silence!  Her 
speech  lay  cluttered  in  ruins,  her  words  like  useless 
broken  bricks  falling  from  the  wall  she  was  building. 

He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  a  pile  of  rock  the 
river  had  not  eaten.  He  pulled  her  down  beside  him. 

"Isn't  it  true,  with  us?" 

"It  is,  with  me,"  breathed  Innes.  Their  voices  were 
low  as  though  they  were  in  church. 

"And  you  think  it  isn't,  with  me !"  Rickard  stood  be 
fore  her.  "Is  it  because  I  trust  you,  I  wonder?  That  I, 
loving  you,  love  to  have  the  others  love  you,  too  ?  Don't 
you  suppose  I  know  how  it  is  with  the  rest,  MacLean; 
how  it  was  with  Estrada?  Should  I  be  jealous?  Why, 
I'm  not.  I'm  proud!  Isn't  that  because  I  know  you, 
know  the  fine  steady  heart  of  you?  You  hated  me  at 
first — and  I  am  proud  of  that.  I  don't  love  you  enough  ?" 
He  knelt  at  her  feet,  not  listening  to  her  pleading.  He 
bent  down  and  kissed  one  foot ;  then  the  other.  "I  love 
them !"  The  face  he  raised  to  her  Innes  had  never  seen 
before.  He  pressed  a  kiss  against  her  knee.  "That,  too ! 
It's  mine.  I've  not  said  my  prayers  since  I  was  a  boy. 
I  shall  say  them  again,  here,  you  teaching  me."  His 
kisses  ran  up  her  arm,  from  the  tips  of  her  limp  fingers. 
His  mouth,  close  to  hers,  stopped  there.  He  whispered : 

"You — kiss  me,  my  girl !" 

Slowly,  unseeingly,  as  though  drawn  by  an  external 


A   CORNER   OF   HIS   HEART  423 

will,  her  face  raised  to  his ;  slowly,  their  lips  met  His 
arms  were  around  her ;  the  world  was  blotted  out. 

Innes,  minutes  later,  put  her  mouth  against  his  ear. 
It  was  the  Innes  he  did  not  know,  that  he  had  seen  with 
others,  mischievous,  whimsical,  romping  as  a  young  boy 
with  MacLean  on  the  Delta. 

"I  love — red,"  she  whispered.  "And  heat  and  sun 
shine.  But  I  love  blue,  on  you ;  and  cold,  if  it  were  with 
you, — and  the  rest  of  the  differences — " 

He  caught  her  to  him.  "There  are  not  going  to  be  any 
differences !" 


THE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARI 


